Groundhog Day
by Tom's Mum
Summary: Richard finds history repeating itself - but can he manage better the second time around?
1. Chapter 1

Detective Inspector Richard Poole hesitated at the door of his boss's office. He didn't believe in premonitions but something about this particular summons had left him with a distinct feeling of unease, as if something catastrophic were about to happen. _Nonsense!_ he thought _. It's just that you didn't sleep well last night and you're tired. No such thing as a sense of impending doom. There's nothing extraordinary about an appointment to see your superior officer._

Except that he had the distinct impression that most of the time Chief Superintendent Hewitt was barely aware of his existence. Since his return from the Caribbean about a year ago, he had been transferred to this anonymous North London borough and assigned to what were basically cold cases. No doubt someone had whispered in the Chief's ear that Poole had a reputation as a brilliant detective but was not a 'people person' and definitely not a team player.

So his days were spent in splendid isolation in a tiny office in the basement with just a pile of dusty old files for company. He didn't mind, particularly – he enjoyed analysing the paperwork, doing additional research, getting further tests done as forensic capabilities evolved, following up the little things that the original investigating team had missed and sometimes – just sometimes – he found a new avenue of enquiry which led to the investigation being reactivated and in a couple of instances had resulted in arrests and prosecutions. That was particularly satisfying, of course. It appealed to his sense of neatness, order and propriety that cases should have a beginning, middle and – most importantly – an end.

As for the rest of the team, well, he hardly knew them really. He suspected that most of them were so absorbed in their active investigations that they completely forget he was there for most of the time. Not that anyone was deliberately unkind: they were a pleasant enough group of people, who sometimes remembered to invite him to the pub after work. And occasionally he even went. But he was out on a limb, shut up all day in his office so daily interactions were limited to the coffee machine or water dispenser or the occasional chat at the photocopier. And so his reputation as something of a loner passed from rumour into incontrovertible fact.

But enough of this. Richard cleared his throat, straightened his already straight tie and knocked firmly on the door. A grunt from within he interpreted as an invitation to enter so he opened the door and hovered on the threshold.

"You wanted to see me, Sir?"

"Ah, yes … er, Poole. Take a seat."

Chief Superintendent Hewitt found himself facing a fairly nondescript man of early middle age, neatly but conservatively dressed, hair starting to recede but with a pair of striking green eyes which stared back at him steadily and with a hint of inquiry. He sighed. He never quite knew how to handle Poole, which was why he avoided meeting him whenever possible. The man was obviously very gifted – extremely intelligent and diligent – but could be tetchy, difficult and sometimes even downright rude. Yes, definitely not a people person.

He sorted some papers on his desk while deciding on the best way of approaching the business in hand. From past experience, he knew that the usual pleasantries were unlikely to work. Damn the man – he almost made him nervous! He looked up and met the somewhat unnerving gaze.

"Well, Poole, and how are you enjoying working in the Borough?"

"Well, Sir, I am almost totally desk-based so I don't get to see much of the Borough as such, but yes, I am finding the work interesting and quite satisfying, thank you."

"I see you have had some quite remarkable successes since you joined us: five people arrested and charged so far. That's quite impressive."

"Thank you, Sir." _What is this all leading to?_

"The thing is, Poole, I've had a request for assistance from Interpol. "

"Interpol, Sir?"

"Yes. As you know, the Interpol headquarters in Paris is staffed in part by police officers seconded from their national police forces. One of them was a Detective Sergeant Morris, who was attached to the Met, though not this Borough. Sadly, she appears to have been murdered – shot while sitting in a car. The French police have been investigating of course, but they seem to have drawn a blank."

"Well, that's very sad, Sir, but I don't really see how I …"

"No, well you see one of the top brass at Interpol is a Brit and in fact he used to be my old boss years ago. He feels that since the victim was British and the French police have got nowhere it would be appropriate to send a British officer to conduct a thorough investigation, and of course I immediately thought of you."

"Me, Sir? But …"

"Yes, I am convinced you would be the best man for the job. _And to be honest I can't spare any of my other officers._ You have a track record in murder cases second to none, and you have experience of working overseas."

"But … but Paris, Sir – that's in France!"

"I am aware of that, Inspector. Is there some particular problem?"

"No, well, yes … I don't speak French, to start with."

"That's not an issue. Interpol, as I am sure you are aware, is a multilingual organisation where just about everyone speaks English."

"And … and … I don't get on with the French!" A hideous vision of Catherine Bordey in full, uninhibited gallic flow suddenly loomed.

"Really, Inspector, I'm sure you can make an effort, just for once. And Paris is a charming city, do you not agree?"

"I don't know, Sir, I've never been there."

"All the more reason, then. It will do you good to get out of your comfort zone. So that's settled then. Go home and pack and my secretary will organise your travel – you should be there by late afternoon."

Hewitt rose, and Richard knew it was useless to argue any further. Biting his lip he left the room and returned to his basement to rage inwardly at the unfairness of fate and then to collect up the paperwork he was currently working on and file it safely in his pending tray. He picked up his coat and briefcase and quickly made his way out of the building towards the Underground. He did wonder whether to mention his assignment to the rest of the team but concluded dispiritedly that they wouldn't miss him and probably wouldn't even notice that he was not there so decided not to bother.

For once, since it was only 10.30 in the morning, he got a seat on the tube. Normally he would have got out whatever book he was currently reading but today his thoughts were in too much turmoil for concentration. Paris! The last place he ever wanted to go to. Full of difficult, argumentative, emotional French people. It was all very well for Hewitt to talk about getting out of his comfort zone: didn't the man understand that the whole point of a comfort zone was that you were _comfortable_ in it?

Well, there it was. He had been here before. It was a bit weird, when you came to think of it. He was once again being sent overseas on an unwanted assignment to solve the murder of a British police officer. As the train jolted along the tracks he was suddenly reminded of a stupid film he had seen on one of the interminable flights he had made to the Caribbean. About a man who had to live the same bit of his life over and over again. He had been scathing about it at the time: a ridiculous plot, totally unscientific and implausible, he couldn't understand what people saw in it. And yet here he was …

The doors hissed open once more. With a start Richard realised that the train had arrived at his station. He grabbed his case and ran for the gap as the doors began to close. He just squeezed through but his case was caught. He tugged frantically. The doors opened again briefly and he tumbled backwards onto the station platform. Another humiliation. With a filthy look at the offending spot he brushed himself down, ignoring the stares and giggles of the other passengers and strode off towards the escalator, muttering darkly to himself. Five hours later he was stepping off the Eurostar train at the Gare du Nord.


	2. Chapter 2

_Well at least it won't be as hot and uncomfortable as Saint-Marie_ had thought Richard, as he watched the fields of northern France fly by. He looked smugly at his suitcase, sitting well within his view and silently congratulated himself on having insisted on travelling by train rather than by air. No chance of lost luggage this time! He well recalled the totally unexpected assault on his senses when he had stepped out of the airport on that tiny faraway island: he had been quite unprepared for the overwhelming heat, the light, the colours, the smells. Over time he had grown accustomed of course, but he was never comfortable with life in the Caribbean and it had been a relief when the order had eventually come to return to the UK.

When the time to leave had actually come, however, he found he had very mixed emotions. Of course he was looking forward to getting back to a country where he felt at home, where life was ordered and predictable, where there was no chance of temperatures in the high 30s or 40s, where people by and large minded their own business and left you alone to get on with yours. And yet. And yet there were some things that he would definitely miss. Not the beachside shack with the infernal sand that got everywhere, no matter how often he swept, and the tree that grew through his living room. And not the bugs and insects that took particular pleasure in tormenting him. Not even Harry, the lizard with whom he was forced to share his unsatisfactory home and with whom he had formed some kind of ridiculous bond. No, he wouldn't miss any of that. But the feeling of leading a successful team that pulled together, the feeling of being appreciated for his work, of camaraderie – that was all new to him and that he would miss.

And then of course there was Camille, the beautiful sergeant that he spent far too much time thinking about. He would certainly miss her bright presence in the morning when she called to collect him, the warmth of her smile and the hand of friendship that she had offered him. Saying goodbye to the team had been hard: Fidel looked as if he was about to burst into tears and even Dwayne was quite upset. Camille had been remarkably self-contained – brittle even – when she wished him bon voyage and success in his future life, and he had taken his cue from her. The last thing he wanted, after all, was an emotional scene. _Keep in touch_ she had said, and he had, for a while. But as the weeks passed, the emails had dwindled and finally stopped after a few months. _Well, what was the point?_ he had thought. It was over. It wasn't as if he was ever going to see her again. No good dwelling on what might have been because he knew damn well that it _wouldn't_ have been – even if he had spent the rest of his life on Saint-Marie he knew he would never have had the courage to ask her for a date. So it was all for the best.

The train glided to a stop and Richard was jerked out of his reverie. Paris! Visions of cancan girls and men in berets and striped jumpers were firmly repressed: of course Paris wasn't like that any more. He took a deep breath and stepped out onto the platform.

"Inspector Richard Poole?"

"Yes …?"

"I'm Bernard Taylor, Head of Operational Analysis at Interpol. Used to be Bill Hewitt's Super, back in the day. He tells me you're the very chap we need."

"Oh … er … well, that's very kind and I'll do my best of course. But …"

"Never mind that, come along and I'll fill you in on the way."

Richard picked up his case and trailed after Taylor, who led him to a chauffeur-driven air-conditioned car. _"Public school, clipped accent, natural air of authority"_ he thought gloomily, shooting quick, covert glances at his new mentor. _This doesn't look like the sort of place where I will fit in. Nothing new there, then._ Taylor appeared to be a man in his late fifties, not very tidily dressed, affable enough on the surface but probably not one to cross lightly.

"To be frank, Poole, we're in a bit of a pickle and we're hoping you can help us out. It's a delicate situation: Sergeant Morris was a British officer seconded to Interpol at the time of her most unfortunate death. Naturally, we can't investigate ourselves in the circumstances, so we handed the matter over to the PJ."

"PJ?"

"Police Judiciare – it's the branch of the French police force which investigates serious crimes like this. So they have done all the preliminary work – forensics, ballistics etc – but have quite literally come up against a brick wall. You see, the place where Sergeant Morris was shot was a disused industrial estate in the suburbs, surrounded by high walls and fences and with only one entrance, which was covered by CCTV. And the CCTV shows that no-one entered or left between the time her car arrived and the time she was found. Bit of a poser, eh?"

"It's certainly intriguing, Sir."

"So that's where you come in. Bill Hewitt tells me you're the expert when it comes to solving impossible crimes."

"Well … er …"

"Splendid. So it's over to you, now, old chap."

It was the start of the rush hour and the journey was slow. The car edged through congested streets and seemed to be heading for the city centre. Richard turned to the man sitting next to him and asked:

"So, Sergeant Morris, was she working for … for Operational Analysis too?"

"Yes, she was working in a small team of four."

"Was she investigating any particular case at the time of her death?"

Hewitt could barely conceal his impatience.

"Look, Inspector, I'm not sure how much you know about how Interpol operates but we don't investigate specific cases. We have no powers of arrest – we leave that to the national police forces. What we do is to study data related to criminals, incidents and crime suspects. By collecting and assessing this data we try to identify links between suspects and connections between different crimes in different places, which we then pass on."

"I see."

"Sergeant Morris and the team were working on an organised crime syndicate which operates a global network specialising in money laundering, extortion, racketeering, prostitution and drugs. Pretty much everything that's nasty, really. We believe it's being run by a Russian gang based somewhere in the Middle East, but currently there seems to be a lot of activity centred on Paris."

"And you think Sergeant Morris's murder could be connected? You think she could have discovered something important?"

"Possibly. Or it could just have been the result of a lovers' tiff – what the French call a crime of passion. That's for you to find out. All I will say is that we've been working on this gang for a number of years now, and given a great deal of information and good leads to national police forces in several countries, but every time the gang seems to be a step ahead of us and no-one has had any success in arresting anyone other than small fry."

"Do you think they're being tipped off? By someone in Interpol, even?"

"I really don't want to think that, Inspector, but I can't deny that it has crossed my mind."

The car edged closer to one of the bridges spanning the Seine.

"So can you tell me a little about the team Sergeant Morris was working with, Sir?"

"Yes, well, the team is led by Lieutenant André Sorel, on secondment from the PJ. He has been with us for about 8 years now – a very competent officer. And he is assisted by Detective Brad Armstrong from the Canadian Police – young, hard-working, serious – and Gino Molinari, who has been on secondment from the Italian Police for longer than I can remember. He's quite a character, as you will find. As a team, they have been together for about 2 to 3 years now."

"And Sergeant Morris?"

"Hannah Morris had only been with us for about 6 months. Late twenties, talented, ambitious, eager to make her mark. And damned attractive, though I probably shouldn't say so. A real loss."

"So, are any members of the team suspects in this case?"

Hewitt looked aghast. "Good God, Inspector, of course not – what a thing to ask!"

"Well, it wouldn't be the first time a police officer has turned bad, Sir. In fact, my first case in the Caribbean centred on just such an occurrence. So presumably that means that the team can assist me in my investigations?"

"Y – e – s, I suppose so. Though really you should be working with the PJ on this – as I told you, we don't investigate cases, as such. I'll arrange for you to have a briefing from your opposite number in the PJ tomorrow."

The car had finally crossed the river and turned left along a wide boulevard.

"That's the Sorbonne over there, and our HQ is just a bit further on. Ah, here we are."

The car purred to a halt and Richard got out, feeling a little dazed. Away from the protection of the car's soothing air-conditioning and tinted windows, he was immediately hit by a wall of heat and a blazing sun which beat down mercilessly. He staggered a little.

"Are you quite well, Inspector?"

"Yes, … yes" he gasped, "I just wasn't expecting it to be so hot."

"Mm, yes … I suppose it is. We just get used to it. Paris is always hot in August but this summer has been exceptionally warm. I take it the heat wave didn't reach England, then?"

Richard briefly reviewed the past two months of cloud, cool wind and frequent drizzle, with just the occasional sunny day, and shook his head. Of course it had been nice not to be sweltering in the tropical heat of the Caribbean, but he was forced to admit that it had been a pretty dismal summer, even by British standards.

"Well I hope you brought some cooler clothes with you – you'll suffocate in that suit of yours. Now leave your case at Reception and I'll get it taken round to the place where you'll be staying and come upstairs – I'll introduce you to the team."

Richard was shown into a medium-sized open-plan room which contained a number of desks. Three heads lifted as he entered the room and Hewitt introduced him.

"Welcome to Interpol, Inspector" said a well-dressed and well-groomed man in his mid-to-late thirties. "We'll give you all the assistance we can – Hannah was a good colleague of ours and we are devastated by her loss."

He spoke English fluently but with a decidedly French accent: _Lieutenant André Sorel_ , thought Richard, _the team leader._ The man's smile was difficult to resist, and he found himself grimacing back in return.

"Yes, please let us know if there is anything we can do for you, Sir." The transatlantic twang immediately betrayed the identity of Brad Armstrong. Richard prided himself on being able to tell the difference between an American and a Canadian accent – something he knew many of his fellow countrymen were unable to do.

"What part of Canada are you from, Detective?" he asked.

"Quebec, Sir. It's one of the reasons I wanted to work at Interpol, Quebec being both English and French speaking. And to further the cause of world policing, of course" he added earnestly.

"Most admirable. And you must be …"

"Gino Molinari, at your service, Chief. From Napoli originally but I've been in Paris for so long now it has become my home. Anything you want to know, you just ask me – Gino knows everything and everyone! And if you're looking for a little night-time entertainment, I know _all_ the places!"

"Er … no … thank you. I don't think I'll be needing that kind of expertise."

"Gino is our resident hedonist" laughed André Sorel. "A different girl for each day of the week and a different restaurant to take her to. He'll never settle down. Not what you would call a family man!"

"Well, that's because I never found the right woman, mon chef. I drink too much for Brad's Kerrie, and I could never afford your Nathalie!"

Everyone laughed. "Kerrie's a tee-totaller and my wife likes nice things – expensive nice things!" explained André. "It's a good job I'm well paid!"

"So it's la dolce vita for me. And what's wrong with that? Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow …"

"Quite. Well, no dolce vita for me, I'm afraid. I'm just here to do a job, and then I'll be off back to London on the first Eurostar." Richard looked around. "Can I use this desk?"

"It was Hannah's" replied André, "but yes, of course you can use it."

Richard sat down, opened his briefcase and took out several pens and pencils, which he arranged neatly, in ascending order of size, on the desk. He switched on the computer.

"Can you arrange a login for me, please?"

Brad leapt to his feet. "I'll just speak to IT. They will need to give you access to I-24/7. You're familiar with the system, Sir?"

"Yes, I've used it in the UK. Thank God I'm back in the realms of civilisation. You've no idea what it's like to be without a global police communications system, not to be able to access all the criminal databases. The island I worked on in the Caribbean was too small to be connected, so we had to do everything via a whiteboard."

"You worked in the Caribbean, Sir? Wow! It sounds wonderful – just like working in paradise! You must miss it."

"Well that's just where you're wrong, officer. It is unbelievably hot and humid _all_ the year round. The sand gets everywhere, the bugs hunt you to death, there's no forensics lab and the staff have _no_ idea of proper procedures. And don't get me started on the local population … So no, I don't miss it. To be honest I don't think about it much at all."

Gino laughed. "It doesn't sound as if you liked it much, Sir! But there must have been compensations – all those women in bikinis, for example!"

Richard could feel an inarticulate rage surging within him. "Why is it that everyone assumes the Caribbean is (a) a paradise and (b) populated solely by women in bikinis? In my experience the climate was deeply unpleasant and if the island was full of anything it was murderers!"

"So no bikinis, then?"

" _Yes there were women in bikinis. And I did NOT ogle them!"_

"I'm sure you didn't. The thought never crossed my mind, Sir."

Whoops. This would never do, he was getting carried away. Time to pull himself together and re-gain control of the situation, which seemed somehow to have slipped out of his grasp.

"Well, that's quite enough. I'm not here to talk about life in the Caribbean but to solve a murder. I'm seeing the … the PJ in the morning, but what can you tell me in the meantime?"

"Yes, I've fixed you an appointment with Jules Perrot at 9 am. He's the officer who has been leading the investigation for the PJ."

"Thank you, André. So … Hannah?"

"Hannah had been working in this unit for about six months, on secondment from the Met. What can I tell you about her? She was very bright, obviously destined to go far. What you in England call _a good copper_ , I believe."

"And at the time of her death she was investigating an organised crime syndicate?"

"Yes, we have been trying for several years to pin down the leaders of the network. They seem to operate out of the Middle East somewhere – we think probably Qatar or Iran, but we're not sure, but we believe they originate from Russia or one of the former Soviet republics. They seem to have tentacles everywhere – a finger in every tart, as you say."

 _Pie_ , thought Richard savagely, but just as he opened his mouth, Sorel continued.

"We know they have a global racketeering empire but we also believe they are behind much of the people smuggling into Greece, and we are currently endeavouring to find the critical link. That was what Hannah was working on at the time of her death."

"And you think there's some connection to her death?"

"Well, when she called me, she said she had found out something important. If she had, then someone may have wanted to silence her."

"Wait, wait … you said _when she called me._ Was that on the day of her death?"

Sorel looked surprised. "Yes, I thought you knew. She called and asked me to meet her. When I got there, she was dead."

"So _you_ found the body?"

"Yes. She asked me to meet her by a disused factory in the suburbs. Presumably she was concerned for her safety so she chose somewhere very out of the way."

"And she definitely gave you to understand that she had made a breakthrough in the case?"

"Yes."

"But you've no idea what that might be?"

"I'm sorry, no. She never got the chance to tell me. "

"But that must be why she was killed, Sir, don't you think?"

"It's possible, Brad, but there could be other motives. What about her private life?"

There was a short silence. Richard looked at the 3 faces which were staring at him. "Well, you must have some idea! Did she have a boyfriend, for example?"

"Well, Sir, she didn't talk much about her personal life. But I never heard her mention a boyfriend. In fact, I never really heard her talk about any friends. I think she was so wrapped up in her work that she didn't really have time for anything else."

Richard felt a twinge of empathy with the deceased officer. "And none of you have any idea of the leads she was following, anything that could shed light on this discovery of hers?

Three heads shook in unison. Richard sighed. Well, he didn't like cases to be too easy and this one was going to take some teasing out.

"Look, it's getting late. I'm not sure where I'm staying but I think I ought to check in. Anyone know which hotel they've put me in?"

André sprang to his feet. "It's not a hotel, Inspector. We have special accommodation which we keep for visiting officers on temporary assignment. It's an apartment on the Ile de la Cité – in fact it was Hannah's." He held out a key.

"You're putting me in the victim's apartment? Isn't that a secondary crime scene?"

"Don't worry, Sir, forensics have been over it with a fine tooth comb. It has been cleaned and tidied up and released for use again. Your luggage has already been sent across."

"Just tell me please that it's not located on a beach and that it doesn't have a tree growing through the living room and a resident lizard?"

Three pairs of eyes stared at him in astonishment. "More experiences from the Caribbean, Sir?" Richard shuddered. "You have no idea. Total nightmare. Really, it's a miracle I survived."

"You had a house on a beach, and you call it a nightmare?"

"Oh yes, it sounds idyllic, doesn't it – until you think about the sand that blows everywhere. I had to sweep the floor at least five times a day!"

"It doesn't sound as if you and the Caribbean were a match made in heaven, Sir! Well, let's hope you have a better time in Paris."

"Well I'm not here to enjoy myself, am I, and the sooner I can solve this case the sooner I can be back in England and out of your way. Now, can someone call me a taxi please?"

Twenty minutes later Richard was deposited outside a tall building clutching the key to his apartment. It was already dusk, but he could still see the river glinting in the darkness. He went through the entrance and came face to face with the doors to apartments 1 and 2 and a flight of stairs leading upwards. He looked at the key – his was apartment 9. That must be right at the top of the building. Surely there was a lift? He looked around. There was no lift. With a sigh he started climbing the stairs. It may be evening but God it was hot! After two flights he stopped, dragged his handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow, thinking longingly of the bottles of iced water they had always kept in the fridge in the Honoré police station. It had been a long day, and he was tired, but he set his shoulders and dragged himself up the remaining flights of stairs until he reached the door with a number 9 on it, which – as he had surmised – was right at the top of the building. With a sigh of relief he turned the key and opened the door.

A quick glance around showed no tree. Of course there was no tree – he was on the fifth floor of an apartment block! He gave himself a mental shake and a stern talking-to. The parallels with Saint-Marie were starting to accumulate, but he knew really that it was nothing but coincidence. Not, of course, that he believed in coincidence.

The apartment was basically a bed-sitting room, with a small kitchen and bathroom. All perfectly clean and tidy. Time to unpack, then. Suddenly there was a cold pricking sensation at the back of his neck. There was something missing from the apartment. His luggage. _No!_ he screamed inwardly. _I avoided the airport, I watched my suitcase all the way from London. Why oh why did I let those morons at Interpol take it from me?_ Shaking with barely suppressed rage he got out his phone, scrolled through his contacts until he found the number André Sorel had given him. The Lieutenant answered quickly, asking if everything was all right.

"No, it is very much _not_ all right. I come all the way from London to this godforsaken country, and can I point out that I most definitely did not ask for this assignment. I avoided the airport because they always lose my luggage, I never took my eyes off my case all the way here on the train, and what do I find as soon as I get here: whatever idiot took my case has lost it! It's not here! Here I am stuck in this apartment without so much as a toothbrush or a change of underwear. I never wanted to come to France, and you see I was ri …. What's that? The concierge …? No … No … In the basement? Oh. I see. Yes … Well, I'd better go and find her then. Well, … er, thank you, André. I hope I didn't disturb you? Oh … sorry. Well, my apologies to Mrs André."

Richard huffed for a few more minutes. He suspected he hadn't covered himself in glory but there was nothing to be done about that now. After all, how was he supposed to know that he should have checked in with the concierge on arrival – the concierge who had taken delivery of his suitcase? Wearily he trudged back down the five flights of stairs. In his earlier haste he had failed to notice that the stairs on the ground floor led downwards as well as upwards and there was a sign which read _Mme Desfarges, Concierge_. He knocked on the door, which was opened by a woman in her late sixties, who scowled at him somewhat aggressively.

"Bonsoir, Monsieur?"

"Er …er … bonjour."

The woman raised an enquiring eyebrow and waited.

"Er … Inspector Richard Poole." He pointed upstairs and showed her the key. "You have my luggage … ?" He mimed carrying a suitcase.

"Ah, oui, la valise. La voici." The woman pulled his case out from the hall and handed it to him.

"Oh, er … merci."

"Bonsoir, Monsieur, et bonne nuit. Et attention au chat!" She jabbered on, gesticulating wildly. Richard had no idea what she was talking about, so just nodded, gave her a little wave and backed away. _Mad as a hatter_ he thought _just like all the French._ But now he had to face the stairs again and this time, dragging a heavy case after him. _Sometimes_ , he thought savagely, _you just had to accept that life was out to get you._

By the time he got to the top of the building he was puffing heavily and the collar of his shirt was soaked in sweat. Being right under the roof, the apartment was like an inferno. He flung open the shutters that guarded the long window to let in some air, but the noise of the late evening Parisian traffic was deafening so he hastily closed them again. Why did the French have to drive with their hand on the horn, he wondered. It was one long beep-beep-beep. Not like the soothing sound of waves breaking gently on the shore. Perhaps not everything about Saint-Marie had been so terrible. Well, it wasn't as if he wasn't used to sleeping in a hot room, and at least he didn't need a mosquito net here.

Richard supposed he should have something to eat, but he found he couldn't face tackling the stairs again. He fished in his briefcase and found the sandwich he had bought but not eaten on the train. That would just have to do for now. What he really longed for was a nice cup of tea so he went into the tiny kitchen to investigate. Peering into the cupboards he discovered a coffee machine with a supply of ground coffee but no sign of a teapot. He congratulated himself smugly on having foreseen this situation and brought a packet of teabags with him. He dropped one into a mug and filled the kettle. Was it too much to hope for milk? He opened the small fridge eagerly. It was empty. All he could find was a small carton of UHT milk. _Ugh_ he thought. Richard hated UHT milk with a passion that bordered on mania. But was it better than drinking black tea? Grudgingly he supposed it was (just) and poured himself a cup. The milk completely ruined it of course but he forced himself to drink it, adding fresh milk to his mental shopping list for tomorrow. Then he had a quick shower, climbed into his Marks  & Spencer pyjamas and was asleep the minute his head touched the pillow.

Note: I am well aware that Interpol moved its headquarters from Paris some years ago - and it never was in the centre of the city - but I claim poetic licence!


	3. Chapter 3

Richard was having one of those dreams where he was trapped and no matter how he struggled he could never get free. A heavy load was pressing him down and down and there was a roaring in his ears. He opened his eyes in terror. Daylight was streaming through the cracks in the shutters and the dull throb and hum of the traffic as Paris woke up to another day formed a backing track to his panicked breathing.

"Purrrrr" said the creature sitting on his chest. Richard bolted upright and found himself staring into a pair of unblinking tawny eyes.

"Purrrrr"

"Get off! Shoo!" He leaped out of bed, waving his arms around ineffectively. The cat settled itself into the warm hollow where Richard's body had been and contemplated him sanguinely. Richard danced around the bed in incoherent despair. Now he would have to wash all the bedding – everyone knew cats were unhygienic, they carried fleas and heaven knows what else. But the creature showed no sign of moving and was taking no heed of Richard's inarticulate cries. Indeed, it was making itself perfectly at home.

What to do? Pick it up and put it outside? But those claws were sharp and he suspected that if it came to a fist-fight the cat would probably come off best. But then Richard had one of the brilliant ideas for which he was well known. Mme Desfarges! What, after all, was a concierge for if not to dispose of unwanted cats? He showered and dressed quickly and ran down the stairs to the basement.

"Bonjour, Monsieur Poole. Vous avez bien dormi, j'espère?"

"Er … er … there's a _cat_ in the apartment! Cat! Miaow … purrrr …" Richard feverishly tried to make the woman understand the problem that was gripping him.

Mme Desfarges shrugged in way that an infuriated Richard recognised as unmistakeably French. "Well, I told you about the cat last night, but you wouldn't listen."

 _She speaks English. And I have been making such an idiot of myself …_

"I'm sorry, Madame Desfarges, I didn't realise you spoke English."

"You never asked, Inspector."

Richard ground his teeth. She was right of course, he had been guilty of making assumptions. "Well, as I don't speak French I'm afraid I didn't understand what you said."

"The cat belonged to Hannah Morris (poor lady), he lives in the apartment. Did you not notice the flap in the door, Mr English Policeman?"

"Well, it can't stay there! I can't live with a cat. It's unhygienic and dirty, it has fleas. I demand that you come and remove it."

The concierge's eyes narrowed and she drew herself up to her not unimpressive full height. "I can assure you, Inspector, that Patterson is a very clean cat and he most certainly does _not_ have fleas."

"Patterson?" Richard's sense of general unease increased exponentially.

"Yes, that was Hannah's little joke. A _patte_ is a cat's paw, you see."

"I see. Well, be that as it may, the cat has to go, so if you wouldn't mind …?"

Mme Desfarges looked at him disdainfully, tossed her head and made for the stairs. Despite being a good 20 years younger than the concierge Richard found himself panting to keep up with her as she strode purposefully from landing to landing.

"Here" he gasped as they finally reached number 9, opening the door for her.

"Come along, mignon" she cooed to Patterson, who was now snuggled into Richard's pillow. She picked him up with no trouble at all and walked out of the apartment. "You will need to fasten the cat flap if you don't want him to come back," she warned. "This is his home, after all." She carried on along the corridor.

"Where are you taking it?" asked Richard in some alarm. "Just to the roof garden, it's where he spends most of the day."

"What roof garden?"

"Didn't you see it when you arrived yesterday? No, perhaps it was too dark. Come, and I'll show you."

She led the way to the end of the landing, where there was another door and a window, which was ajar. Following her through, Richard climbed a few steps and emerged onto the roof of the building, which was covered with greenery and flowering plants.

"You see? You can sit up here in the sunshine if you wish. We're so high that the views are quite wonderful. The window stays open so the cat can come and go."

Richard stood rooted to the spot. Two terrors were uppermost in his mind: the dizzying fact that the parapet wall which ran round the roof and which was the only thing standing between him and certain death was barely waist-high, and the thought of the weight of all that earth and the long roots of the plants which were right above his head and could at any minute (theoretically) come crashing through his ceiling. He certainly wouldn't be sitting up there in the sunshine any time soon – the cat was welcome to his territory.

He backed nervously through the door and returned to the apartment, making sure to lock the cat flap firmly after him. Now all that remained was breakfast. Having no food, there was no alternative to finding a café somewhere. Before he left he thought he would fling open the shutters and the window to try to get some air into the place. In his tiredness last night he had not noticed that the window in fact led onto a small balcony, edged with wrought iron railings. He stepped onto it a little gingerly and looked around. It was indeed a fine view. To his left he could certainly identify the Eiffel Tower in the distance and immediately in front of the apartment was the river. He looked to the right and could see that the road and the land on which it was built seemed to come to an end: he was on an island in the middle of the river.

Something scrunched beneath his feet. Puzzled, he inspected the sole of his foot. Sand! _Sand?_ It was just unbelievable. How the hell had sand found itself onto his balcony? He looked hard at the river bank, rubbed his eyes and looked again. It wasn't possible. He was imagining it. There was a _beach_ all along the far bank of the river. Proper sand, and the attendants were putting out deckchairs. One or two early birds ( _undoubtedly Germans)_ were already staking their claim to the best spots. This was madness – he was clearly going insane. Paris was a major world city – it was not on the coast and it most definitely did _not_ have a beach. He looked down at his shoes, and his natural reaction kicked in; madness or not, the sand must be swept up _immediately._

The balcony having been restored to pristine condition, he trudged down the stairs and, following Mme Desforges' suggestion, installed himself at a café just on the corner, from where he could easily watch the activity on the far bank. The waitress kindly explained that during the peak of the summer every year one of the roads that runs along the Seine is converted to a beach by the import of large quantities of sand. For once, Richard was speechless; to him it was simply inconceivable that anyone could be sufficiently insane to _deliberately_ create sand in a city that had none.

He was still lost in wonder at the inanity of the world when the waitress plonked his breakfast in front of him: a nice pot of tea with what appeared to be real milk was like an oasis to a man lost in the desert. But accompanying it was a basket of croissants and chunks of baguette. Not a piece of toast in sight. And what was this stuff in the little pot called _confiture?_ Not his beloved Golden Shred marmalade! He tasted it dubiously. It was strawberry jam! Jam! You couldn't have jam for breakfast, it just wasn't right. He tried to attract the waitress' attention.

"Monsieur?"

"Erm … could I have toast and marmalade, please?"

"Toast?"

"Yes, with marmalade. Golden Shred, if you have it."

The waitress went away, a troubled look on her face. On her return, she placed a new basket in front of him.

"Voila! Toast."

Richard stared dismally into the basket. A row of neatly aligned rusk biscuits stared back at him, with something the colour of marmalade but which looked suspiciously like apricot jam. He gave up and reached for a croissant.

An hour later André Sorel was introducing him to a detective from the PJ called Jules Perrot.

"Good morning, Inspector. I'm very glad you are taking over this case because to be honest I feel it has come to a dead end, and I have other priorities that I need to pursue. Come into my office and I'll give you an update of where we are."

Jules settled himself behind his desk and pointed to a large sheaf of notes. "That's the case file and obviously I'll pass it over to you, but in the meantime this is what we know so far. Detective Sergeant Morris' body was found in the driver's seat of her car. She had been shot once through the side of the head with a .22 calibre pistol. The window was down so it looks as if she may have known her killer."

"Or it was just a hot day" interjected Richard.

Perrot inclined his head and pushed some photographs across the desk. "Of course. Here are some shots of the crime scene – not very pretty, I'm afraid."

Richard grimaced. He had seen many brutal murders in his time, but he never got used to it – and she had been an attractive woman.

"And the car was parked where exactly?"

Perrot pointed to a map. Here, just by the entrance to a disused factory, in a suburb close to the Périphérique."

"The …?"

"The Périphérique. It's the ring road round Paris. So quite a way from the centre."

"Why there?"

"I've no idea, but it's where she asked to meet Lieutenant Sorel."

"She called him? Presumably you've checked her phone?"

"Yes of course. Yes, she called him at 8.23 pm – it was the last call she made. By the time he arrived at 8.56 pm she was dead."

"And I understand there is CCTV footage?"

"Yes, and this is the weird thing. The place where she asked him to meet her was by the old entrance gates to a disused factory – about 20 metres from the road that runs past it. There is a CCTV camera covering the road but not the actual crime scene. It clearly shows Hannah's car arriving and turning into the entrance. But then there is nothing until Lieutenant Sorel arrives some half-hour or so later. And yet somehow someone got in and murdered her."

"Could they have come from the factory and climbed over the gates?"

"Well, that's what I thought at first, but there's razor wire running all along the top of the fence and the gates, and I just don't see how anyone could have got over. But don't take my word for it – see for yourself. My car's outside, I'll take you."

It wasn't long before Richard and Jules were standing outside a pair of rusting and chained gates. As Jules had said, the fencing and gates were topped by razor wire, and try as he might Richard could see no sign that anyone had climbed over: there were no bloodstains and no torn fibres. He then searched methodically along the fence in each direction, but there was no sign of a hole through which the murderer could have crawled.

On the way back to the office, he asked Jules what the background checks had turned up.

"About Hannah – nothing of any interest. There were no significant payments or transfers in her bank account, no suspicious calls on her mobile, nothing untoward on her computer. She wasn't on Facebook or Twitter – didn't seem to 'do' social media at all." Richard found himself warming even more to the deceased woman.

"Family? Friends?"

"Parents in the UK, but they had had no contact with her for a few weeks. No particular friends that I could discover, although everyone seems to have liked her."

"Do we know what she did on the day she died?"

"Well, her colleagues say she was at work from about 8.30 until 6. They went for a drink after work, but Hannah said she had something to do that evening, and didn't join them. We don't really know where she was between the time she left work and the time she was found dead."

"No other phone calls ….?"

"Yes, there was one to her colleague Brad Armstrong at about 7. Officer Armstrong says she was asking about his wife – she's about to give birth at any moment and there was a false alarm earlier in the day."

"So where was she when she made that call?"

"She was in the Opéra district. One thing that did occur to me was that it was pretty close to one of the casinos that Interpol suspects might be involved in the money laundering activities of the gang they are tracking. It's just conceivable that she might have decided to pay it a visit in an unofficial capacity."

Richard frowned disapprovingly. "Against the rules, surely?"

"Yes, it would have been, but by all accounts she was an ambitious girl – the sort who might have been prepared to take a risk. But it's only a guess on my part. We've had our suspicions about that casino for a while in fact I was thinking about staging a raid and bringing everyone in for questioning – but it's up to you now."

"Well, if you can get a warrant and provided you clear it with Interpol, I can't see that it would do any harm. Shall we say this evening? Give me a ring when you've spoken to everyone – I'd like to ask them a few questions myself."

Returning to Interpol HQ Richard discovered Brad in the process of taking orders for lunch.

"I usually pop out to the local sandwich bar and buy for the whole team", the young Canadian explained. "Can I get you anything, Sir?"

"A banana sandwich, please."

"Er … I'm not sure they do banana, Sir. What about cheese?"

"Yes, cheese would be fine, thanks."

"And would you like some coffee?"

"No thanks, I'm a tea person myself."

Richard sat down at his desk and opened the bulging folder which contained all the case notes gathered so far on the Hannah Morris case. He planned to spend the rest of the day reading them through carefully, making notes of any inconsistencies or further leads that could be followed up.

"Here is your sandwich, Sir?"

"Thanks" he replied automatically, immersed in the document he was reading. It was only later that he realised with a sigh that it was not a sandwich at all: the bread was a baguette and the cheese was a rather runny brie. As he chewed his way painfully through the crust he wondered – and not for the first time - why the French found it so hard to produce decent bread and cheese.

The rest of the afternoon passed uneventfully. Richard made a number of notes to follow up, but did not discover anything of any significance in the dossier. At about 5 o'clock he decided to call it a day and went to investigate the small supermarket he had discovered just round the corner to his apartment. Of course it did not stock his favourite jars of marmite or Colman's mustard, but it was adequate and he managed to stock up on enough food to keep him going. At least the locals seemed it eat a reasonably varied menu and didn't exist on a daily diet of seafood. Returning home, he cooked himself a simple meal and, having checked and re-swept the balcony and with several anxious glances at the ceiling, was able to sit in the lone armchair and mentally trawl through all the details of the case. At about 9 pm his phone rang.

"It's Jules Perrot, Inspector. Sorry to disturb you at this time of day, but you did say you wanted to interview the people we brought in from our raid on the casino."

"I'm on my way!"

Twenty minutes later, Jules was filling him in. "We've separated them into 2 groups – staff and customers. We've let the customers go because none of them were there on the night Hannah died. The staff are in here." He indicated a door. "Door staff, croupiers, cashiers, catering. Everyone has been spoken to, but no-one recalls seeing Hannah. So it looks like a wild goose chase, I'm afraid. I'm sorry to have dragged you out."

"Well, I'll just say a couple of words to them."

"By all means …" He led the way through the door. A motley collection of people awaited him – half a dozen girls in evening dresses, obviously croupiers, a couple of burly men who were presumably the doorkeepers and others in uniform which indicated they were clearly catering staff. They mostly had a sullen air about them, with maybe a whiff of defiance. Richard guessed that for some of them this was by no means their first encounter with the law. They all looked up as he and Jules entered the room.

Richard cleared his throat. To be honest, he wasn't sure what he was going to say, but felt that as the officer in charge of the murder investigation he should at least cast his eye over what he had hoped were potential witnesses. It looked now as if that hope was dashed. His eyes roved around the room. He was particularly interested in anyone who appeared to be avoiding his gaze, and there were certainly a few. His attention was caught particularly by a woman in a long red dress who seemed to be staring fixedly at the floor, her hair falling forward and obscuring her face.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I am from the Metropolitan Police in London and I am currently in Paris investigating …. " The woman turned her head slightly and he stopped in mid-sentence, stunned into inarticulacy by the shock of recognition. "Good God, _Camille_! Er … Sergeant Bordey … what on earth are you doing here?"

The woman raised her head and replied with more than a touch of asperity in her voice.

"And that is the second time you have blown my cover, Richard Poole!"


	4. Chapter 4

"Well, I wasn't expecting to see you", said Richard in a decidedly aggrieved tone. After all, the woman had no business being in Paris. "How was I supposed to know you were in France?"

"Well, if you'd bothered to keep in touch you would have known that I left Saint-Marie six months ago", she snapped back. "But that was too much like sustaining a human relationship for you, wasn't it? I always said you were a rude man."

She stalked down the corridor, her heels clacking angrily as she rapidly descended the stairs. Richard scurried helplessly in her wake, jabbering incoherently in his attempt to slow her down, to find something, anything, to say. She finally reached street level and swept round suddenly to face him. He almost cannoned into her but managed to stop a hairs breath away. It was unnervingly close, however, and he could see her chest rising and falling as she fought for control over her emotions.

"No doubt I will see you tomorrow, when this whole sorry mess is sorted out. Goodnight, Richard." She turned on her heel and left him standing as she strode off down the street, a prey to feelings more mixed than any she had known for a very long time. Uppermost amongst these, she realised after a while, was anger: anger directed not really at Richard (although his behaviour had been crass, to say the least) but more at herself. Anger that she had let him disturb the veneer of calm which she had manufactured for herself since he had left the Caribbean. Anger that she had not been able to prevent the involuntary flip of the stomach when he had first walked through that door. Anger that the self-deception she had practised for so long was blatantly no longer working.

She reached home, threw off the evening dress she was still wearing from the casino and lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling and recalling every minute of their time together on Saint-Marie. At first she had resented and disliked him intensely, then had come a grudging admiration for his abilities as a detective and from that a somewhat shaky friendship had emerged. He interested her – he was like an onion: always another layer to unpeel. Interest grew to fascination and then, though she was loath to admit it, to what was disturbingly close to a serious obsession. Just how much further she wanted the relationship to go, she was not sure. She was not sure, either, whether her interest was reciprocated. Sometimes she thought it was, but she was afraid that if she made any kind of move he would retreat back behind a wall of formality and pomposity. She was pretty sure that he had opened up more to her than to anyone else, and the night of the hurricane she had almost … But in the end she had lost her nerve, and shortly afterwards he was gone – transferred back to his beloved London.

At the time, she hadn't analysed too deeply how she felt about his departure. What good would it do, anyway? He was going, and in all probability she would never see him again. It would never have worked, anyway: they were too different. Far better to leave things as they were and not risk making a fool of herself. So she bade him farewell with as much equanimity as she could muster and then resolved to move on. His desk was very quickly occupied by his successor and she threw herself into supporting him and making him feel welcome. DI Goodman was a very different kettle of fish to DI Poole; he was chaotic, clumsy and disorganised, but kind-hearted and an equally good detective. It was hard not to like him and although his antics frequently drove her to distraction she managed to develop a good working relationship with him. Since there was no sign of the murder rate on Saint-Marie declining, her days were kept busy. Did she miss Richard? Yes, but there was no point in dwelling on it. In the meantime, life was for living and she got on with it. She was, in fact, reasonably happy.

But then her relationship with Humphrey underwent something of a sea change. Shortly after his ex-wife's visit to the island, it became clear that DI Goodman has started to harbour unwelcome feelings for her. She pretended not to be aware of this, but how could she – with her ready intuition and her unerring eye for relationships – not see the puppydog looks that he was sending her way? She was on the horns of a serious dilemma: she knew that it was only a passing fancy on his part, that he was on the re-bound from Sally and desperately in need of love, but she knew just as surely that he was not the man for her. He was too, well, _nice_. Not what she was looking for at all. And if she was honest, despite (or perhaps because of) all the niceness, she found him just a tiny bit boring. Richard had been annoying, pedantic, childish and pompous at times – but never, ever, boring. _Damn!_ Now she was thinking about Richard again. She firmly banished all such thoughts and returned to her dilemma. She liked Humphrey, she was happy to have him as a friend and she had no wish to hurt him. But equally she wanted nothing more than friendship and it was getting harder and harder to stop him from blurting out his feelings. So when the offer came of a job in Paris it had been like manna from heaven. It had been hard to leave her mother of course, and her colleagues, but she had done it. She had even given Humphrey a friendly, passionless kiss when she left, and hoped very sincerely that he would find the love he was seeking.

So here she was back in Paris, back doing the undercover work that she so enjoyed. It had all been going so well until _he_ had shown up again. Of all the gin joints in all the world … As soon as he had walked through the door she had known what would happen – it had been like watching events unfold in slow motion. And now it was as if she was back on Saint-Marie – all the old feelings and emotions were sweeping back over her. _Oh well_ , she thought, _I guess I know now that it wasn't just a passing infatuation._ But she was no nearer fathoming out the enigma that was Richard Poole. She suppressed a sigh, rolled into bed and switched off the light.

* * *

A mile or two away, tucked up on his island and cocooned on all sides by the waters of the Seine, Richard also lay on his bed, listening to the bells of Notre-Dame mournfully tolling the hour. Not for the first time, he regretted having left his ear plugs at home. He felt exhausted, his mind in total turmoil. He certainly had not been prepared for his well-ordered life to be turned upside down by the re-appearance of a woman he had so determinedly forgotten. He had been quite truthful when he told his new colleagues that he rarely thought about his time in the Caribbean – but that was because he did not allow himself to. Every time he felt his mind begin to wander in that direction, he picked up a book and forced himself to concentrate on something else. He had always been a voracious reader – it had for many years been his escape mechanism when the world grew too unkind – but now he surpassed himself in the number of books he devoured. He was determined that he would not miss the island, not miss the team, not miss Camille. And through sheer force of will he had succeeded, more or less.

But the first glimpse of her across that room had brought it all flooding back and the control which after so many years was ingrained in his very being simply deserted him. In his shock he had blurted out the first words that had come into his mind, without thinking of the consequences. He banged his head against his hand. How could he have been so stupid? He should have realised that if Camille was in that group of people she would be working undercover, and now he had ruined an operation that might have taken months to set up. No wonder she was angry with him. He had not meant to make her angry – he never did – but somehow he seemed to have the knack. He sighed deeply. Once more they had got off on the wrong foot. Well, he would try to apologise in the morning, if she would let him. He switched off the light and drifted off into a light doze.

" Miaaaooow!" Oh God, the wretched cat. Well, he wasn't letting it in – he had fastened the cat flap and the creature could just go and bother someone else. If only he had those earplugs … Richard pulled the duvet over his head and tried to go back to sleep.

"MIAAAOOOW! MIAAAOOOW!"

It was no good. Who would have believed a small animal could make such a large amount of noise? Wearily he got up and padded to the door.

"Shoo! Go away!" he hissed through the keyhole.

"MIAAAOOOW!"

There was nothing for it, he was just too tired for a battle of wills. Reluctantly he opened the flap. A delicate paw came first, followed by a pair of gleaming eyes, a mass of tawny fur and a triumphant tail. Patterson stalked past Richard, ignoring him completely, and made for the kitchen. A graceful leap onto the worktop and an expectant look directed at the cupboard gave even one as unintuitive as Richard a pretty good idea of what he wanted.

"Hungry, are you? Well, it just so happens that I found a tin of catfood the other day. I'm not that keen on it myself, so I suppose you might as well have it."

Making a mental note to thoroughly clean the worktop in the morning, as well as sweep the balcony, he tipped the content of the tin into a bowl and set it on the floor. A minute later the bowl was empty and Patterson was making his proprietorial way towards the bed.

"Oh no, sir, not the bed. You can sleep in the chair. Look, I'll make you a nice bed with a spare blanket. You'll be nice and … "

From the middle of Richard's duvet Patterson surveyed him with an air of total innocence. Trying not to think about those ferocious claws, he nervously picked the cat up and re-positioned him on the chair.

"There, you see, that's _your_ place, the bed is _mine._ " Brushing the hairs fastidiously off the duvet, he got back into bed and switched off the light. Peace at last. Thirty seconds later there was a dull thud and he felt the pressure pads of four tiny paws and then a rhythmic purring in his ear. This was getting ridiculous.

" _No! THIS_ is where you sleep." He once more grabbed the mildly protesting cat and plonked him back on the chair. He even sat on the floor next to him for a while. When Patterson seemed to have finally settled he got up very quietly and stealthily crept back to the bed. But the cat was quicker, snuggling down next to his pillow before he had got one leg under the duvet. Richard wept inwardly but he knew when he was beaten. With a groan he gave up and, making yet another mental note to wash the bedding in the morning as well as clean the worktop and sweep the balcony, he switched off the light.

* * *

Arriving at work the next morning, he was greeted by gaffaws of laughter from the office. As he pushed open the door Camille's voice was declaiming "and then he locked me in a cell with a goat!"

"Good morning, Camille. André, Gino, Brad. I see you are entertaining the troops with tales from the Caribbean."

"Oh hello, Richard. Well, it _was_ funny, you must admit."

"In retrospect, I suppose so. But at the time I seem to remember that you were not so amused."

"No, I was furious. I remember telling you to go back to London."

"Well I did – eventually."

"It wasn't a good start, was it? But it got better." She flashed a quick smile at him. "Look I'm sorry for what I said last night. I was a bit upset."

"Yes, well … I'm … er … I'm sorry for ruining your undercover operation."

It was rare for him to admit he was in the wrong and to apologise, as she well knew, so she decided to be gracious.

"Well, it was coming to an end anyway, and I had already got most of what I wanted from it, so perhaps it's not too much of a disaster."

He knew an olive branch when it was offered and grasped it gratefully. "So what are you doing in Paris? I didn't think you would ever leave Saint-Marie. You seemed so settled there."

"She shrugged. "Well, once Fidel left – he moved to a bigger island – there was only Dwayne left of the old team, and it just wasn't the same. I got a bit restless, I suppose, and so when the offer of a job with the PJ came, I decided to take it. I am Major Bordey now." She certainly wasn't going to tell him about Humphrey's attentions.

"And how did DI … er … Goodman get on? Did he have any success with his clear-up rate?"

"Oh yes" she answered airily, "turns out he is just as good a detective as you are. Except of course that he loves being in the Caribbean."

"Oh." For some reason Richard felt rather rattled. Had he thought perhaps that no-one would be able to equal his prowess in solving murders?

There was an awkward pause. The other three officers exchanged knowing glances. Richard cleared his throat.

"Well, um, it's … er … it's good to see you again, Camille. But you look … a bit … er … _different_."

"You mean because my hair is up and I'm not wearing shorts and a strappy top? This is Paris, not a small island in the tropics. I do know how to dress appropriately for my surroundings." She looked him up and down. "But I see you are still about to expire in that suit of yours." Turning to the others, she added "You know, in the Caribbean it was about 90 degrees with high humidity levels and he still insisted on wearing a woollen suit all the time. Nearly passed out from heat stroke on several occasions! And it was at least 6 months before he even took his jacket off!"

Richard decided to ignore the ensuing laughter. They had had that conversation so many times before that there was really no point in repeating the reasons for his dress code.

"Yes, well, pleasant as it is to reminisce, what exactly are you doing here, Camille?"

"I was summoned to see your boss, Bernard Taylor. I think he was expecting to see _you_ first thing, actually. You're a bit late – that's not like you. And you look tired – there, you're yawning."

"Yes, well I had a lot to do this morning. There's a resident cat at the apartment where I'm staying that kept me awake half the night and then I had to wash the sheets and clean around after him this morning."

"A cat? Shedding hairs on your woollen suit? I'm surprised you allowed that."

"There was no question of allowing it – Patterson is the most determined creature imaginable and at the moment there is no doubt at all about who is in charge."

"Patterson? You named the cat after the Commissioner?"

"No of course not! Really, Camille, I wonder about you sometimes … The cat was Hannah's and apparently the name is a play on the word for a cat's paw …"

"Ah, _patte_. Yes, I see. A strange co-incidence, though."

At that moment the door opened and Bernard Taylor beckoned them to follow him into his office. He waved them to a seat.

"I don't mind telling you, Poole, that there has been a fair bit of shouting this morning between the upper echelons of Interpol and the PJ. Quite outrageous that no-one told us there was an officer working under cover at the casino. Even more outrageous that even the PJ officer in charge of the investigation into Hannah's murder, that Perrot chap, wasn't aware of it. Total balls-up on the communication front, and not for the first time, I'm afraid. Still, we have to make the best of it."

He paused and turned to Camille. "Major Bordey, I understand that you have gained considerable knowledge and insight into the working of the casino and the people who run it?" She nodded her assent. "Well, it seems a pity to let that go to waste, so I have arranged with the PJ to assign you temporarily to the Hannah Morris investigation. You will be working with DI Poole here and Lieutenant Perrot – I believe you and DI Poole are former colleagues, so you should make a good team. I trust that neither of you have any objection?"

Richard and Camille stared at Bernard Taylor, not daring to look at each other. Each was prey to a tumult of conflicting emotions. The prospect of working together again was both exciting and terrifying.

"Well … er …"

"Good! That's settled then. So now just find out who killed Hannah Morris."


	5. Chapter 5

"So," said Camille, closing the case file in front of her, "what do we have?"

"A lot of things that don't make sense." They had spent a number of hours re-examining all the evidence and all the reports, and had re-visited the scene of the crime to allow Camille to familiarise herself with all the details.

He dragged over a flip chart, pinned up a photo of Hannah and drew out his own personal pen. "They don't seem to have a whiteboard, so this will have to do. Questions?"

"How did the killer know where Hannah was going to be? She didn't make the rendezvous with André Sorel until shortly beforehand."

"Agreed." He started to write.

"How did the killer manage to shoot her without being caught on the CCTV camera?"

"Agreed."

"He must have followed her … or maybe even hidden in her car?"

"Possibly. But then how did he get away?"

"And what was it that Hannah had discovered that she wanted to tell André?"

"Or was the whole thing nothing to do with the investigation?"

"A crime passionnel, you mean?"

"If that means what I think it means, then yes. Except that no-one seems to have any knowledge of a boyfriend."

"I'll tell you something, though – she _was_ at the casino that night."

Richard looked across at her, startled. "You never mentioned this before ..?"

"It took me a while to put two and two together. I was thinking about the customers, you know – the punters at the tables. I don't remember seeing her there, but there _was_ someone out the back. I didn't recognise her at first, but the more I think of it the more convinced I am that it was her."

"So when was this exactly?"

"I was on my break, so it must have been some time after 8. I was having a quiet snoop around in the corridor where the management offices are. I could hear the boss of the casino talking to someone in his office and I was trying to overhear what they were saying. But just as I turned the corner I saw this woman half-way down. She was obviously eaves-dropping and she looked, well, sort of frozen – as if she was shocked by what she was hearing. I was too far away to be able to hear anything distinctly but she turned when she heard me and came back up the corridor towards me. She pretended she was looking for the loo and had lost her way but I didn't believe her for a minute. At the time, I thought she was one of the boss's "young ladies" – he always had several on the go and they often caused trouble. I didn't see where she went after that, but I didn't see her playing the tables so she must have left via the side entrance. That would explain why the doormen didn't see her."

"And you're sure this was Hannah?"

"Pretty sure. I only saw her for a few seconds, and I didn't at first make the connection, but … yes … I think it was her. Was she wearing a long, multi-coloured skirt when she was found?"

"Yes she was. So it _was_ her. But what was she doing there? Let's see if there's anything on CCTV. Brad, Gino: would you be able to collect the recordings from all the CCTV cameras at or in the vicinity of the casino on the evening of Hannah's murder, please? There must be a number of cameras around."

"Sure, Chief, we're on it." Brad and Gino grabbed their jackets and set off, glad perhaps to be out of the office and on a real investigation for once.

"My head is spinning. Let's take a break while they're out. There's a café across the road where you can have some tea." Camille swung her bag over her shoulder and made for the door; Richard hesitated momentarily, then followed.

"Well, does the tea pass the Poole test?" Since he had drunk half a cup without protesting or screwing up his face, she knew the answer already.

"Yes, it's fine. It's not the tea that is my problem in Paris – it's the bread!"

She bridled. "And what exactly is wrong with the bread, if you please? I'll have you know that French bread is famous throughout the world!"

"Well, that's fine if all you want is crust, but where's the soft while filling? You need a magnifying glass to find it! And it goes all rubbery."

"Well, you're not supposed to keep it – it doesn't have the same preservatives as your dull old English bread. The whole point is that you buy it fresh every morning. The trip to the boulangerie for your breakfast bread is a sacred French ritual!"

"Sacred or not, all I want is a nice big loaf of bread that I can toast."

She threw up her hands in despair. "Toast! That's just sacrilege – a waste of good bread. If you're really desperate you can get sliced bread à l'anglais at the big supermarkets, but they are mostly on the outskirts of the city." She thought for a moment. "OK, so finish your tea and come with me." She led the way purposefully down the road, across the square and turned into a broad avenue. Richard trailed behind her somewhat apprehensively, wondering where this odyssey was going to end. Eventually she stopped in front of a large boulangerie/pâtisserie, grabbed his arm and pushed open the door. Richard had to allow that some of the cakes and pastries in the window looked absolutely delicious and much nicer than anything he had seen in England – though he would have died rather than admit it.

Camille was embracing the shopkeeper with rather more enthusiasm than he thought appropriate, even allowing for the distressing habit the French had of kissing each other on the cheek two or three times whenever they met (a most unhygienic practice). He hovered in the background while she completed her purchase.

"Look" she said triumphantly, unwrapping the tissue paper, "here is some bread you can toast. It's called pain de mie."

He prodded the small square loaf dubiously. "W..e..l..l … it doesn't look much good but I suppose I could give it a try." There was a sharp intake of breath from behind the counter.

"I'm sorry, tata, he doesn't mean to be rude." Camille tried to placate the offended shopkeeper who, Richard realised to his dismay, had a better grasp of English than he had bargained for.

"No, indeed, madame … er … madame …?" He looked enquiringly in Camille's direction.

"Madame Bordey."

"Bordey! Not …?"

"Yes. This is my aunt, _maman's_ sister. Tata, this is Detective Inspector Richard Poole, from London, who is missing his English bread and doesn't yet know how good yours is."

"Oh, I'm sure it's delicious. Mmmm." He sniffed the bread with what he hoped was an expression of enthusiasm on his face.

Madame Bordey stared at him with hostility, her arms folded. Camille rolled her eyes, and with an airy kiss to her aunt, pulled Richard away.

"Well, that went well!"

"You should have told me!"

"You shouldn't be so rude about everything French!"

"It's not _my_ fault if the French can't manage to make a decent loaf of bread!"

She gave up; he was incorrigible. It was amazing really how quickly they had fallen back into their old relationship of affectionate bickering. She would have to be on her guard.

"What now?"

"Let's think. Is there anyone else we need to talk to, anyone else who knew Hannah?"

"What about the neighbours, the other residents in the apartments?"

"Well, Jules Perrot interviewed them all, and none of them seemed to know very much about her."

"She must have kept herself very much to herself. How very English!"

He decided to ignore the provocation. "Well, Madame Desfarges said she wasn't the chatty sort."

"Madame Desfarges?"

"The concierge."

"You have a concierge! Wow, that's pretty unusual these days. But don't you see, if anyone knows anything about Hannah, it will be her. In my experience, there hasn't yet been a concierge who didn't have her nose permanently pressed to the net curtains."

"I don't think Madame Desfarges has any net curtains, Camille. In fact, I'm not sure she has any curtains at all."

Once such pedantry would have driven her up the wall, but these days it just made her smile. "Well, never mind, let's go and talk to her. So where is your apartment, exactly?"

"On an island in the river, you know – next to the cathedral."

"You're on the Ile de la Cité? You have all the luck – it's where the city of Paris grew up, in the Middle Ages. Very few people get to live there now."

"I expect they were all driven away by the sound of those infernal bells!"

She laughed. "Remind me to find you an English translation of _Notre Dame de Paris_ by Victor Hugo – you know, the guy who wrote _Les Misérables._ You probably know it as _the Hunchback of Notre-Dame_ – they made a famous film of it in the 1930s with Charles Laughton as Quasimodo. The bells figure rather prominently!"

"Well, I haven't got over _the Count of Monte Christo_ yet. Although of course I _did_ escape, in the end."

"I can't believe you still think of Saint-Marie as a prison. I know you were homesick and you couldn't cope with the climate and the insects, but surely it wasn't _that_ bad …?"

To her annoyance, he appeared to give her question serious consideration. "Well, I suppose the sound of the sea at night was quite soothing, but it was so infernally hot and airless in that shack. And Harry was quite endearing, in his own way."

"Is that it? The sum total of your enjoyable experiences in the Caribbean?"

He looked embarrassed and inspected his feet. "Um … well … of course, it was satisfying to solve so many cases and … and to work with … with such a good team."

"Did you miss us, back in your cold and rainy London?"

"Really, Camille, what sort of question is that?"

"A straight one. _We_ missed _you_. In fact, that's really why Fidel left. You know how much he used to look up to you. Well, he never felt quite the same about DI Goodman and so when the opportunity of a transfer to Antigua came, he took it. He seems to be quite happy there and I understand a little brother or sister for Rosie is on the way. Dwayne is the same as ever, of course – he and Humphrey get on really well."

For a moment Richard experienced something that was very close to regret. But dwelling on the past was not something he allowed himself, so he turned his attention back to the task in hand, relieved that Camille appeared not to notice that he had avoided answering her question. By this time they had made their way to the banks of the Seine and were approaching the bridge which led to the island.

"Oh look, there's the beach!" cried Camille excitedly. "I really must find the time to come and sit in the sun one day."

"And that's another thing," continued Richard seamlessly. "Whenever the wind blows my balcony gets covered with sand. I have to sweep it at least twice a day! Whoever dreamt up such a ridiculous idea should be buried alive in the sand of his own creation!"

"Oh no, it's a wonderful idea! I love it! During the heat of the summer any Parisian who can, makes for the coast. Paris empties of Parisians and fills up with tourists. But not everyone can leave town at that time, so for those who have to stay behind this is the nearest they have to the seaside. On their day off they can come and sit by the water in a deckchair while the children play in the sand. It's a great idea – all cities should do it."

"Well I can't imagine it working in London. People would be sitting in deckchairs in the pouring rain, most likely."

"Well, if you _will_ have such an unreliable climate …" she retorted mischievously.

"That's not fair, Camille!"

"What's sauce for the duck is sauce for the goose." She knew perfectly well that she had got the saying wrong and waited for the inevitable correction but he merely gave her a pained glance. She giggled and his mouth twitched in a hastily suppressed response.

"Here we are." He looked at her severely, and she tried to compose herself. They descended the steps and knocked on the concierge's door. Richard opened his mouth to speak but Camille stepped in quickly; she knew his tactics of old and didn't want to risk offending a potential witness. She smiled warmly.

"Good afternoon, Madame. I am Major Bordey of the Police Judiciaire, and I believe you already know my colleague from London, Inspector Poole? We'd like to talk to you about poor Hannah Morris, if you don't mind. May we come in, please?"

The concierge stared hard at Richard, then nodded curtly and stood aside for them to enter. "There's not much I can tell you, she wasn't one for small talk on the stairs, you know."

They sat down in the small parlour and ran through a series of questions. The concierge had spoken the truth: she really knew very little about the occupant of apartment 9. Disappointed, they got up to leave. Richard was already back in the entrance hall when Camille paused in the doorway and asked, as an afterthought:

"Did it not seem strange to you, Madame, that an attractive woman like Hannah had no boyfriend?"

"Oh but she did, my dear."

"She did? Richard, you need to hear this."

"What?"

"Please go on, Madame."

"Oh yes, there was a man who visited her regularly – about once a week. Always in the evenings."

"Do you know who he was?"

"I've no idea, I'm afraid."

Camille looked at Richard. "Forensics – didn't they check the apartment for fingerprints?"

"Yes, and there's nothing suspicious in their report. Are you quite sure, Madame Desfarges?"

She bridled indignantly. "I know what I saw. Yes I'm, sure. There won't have been any fingerprints because he never went up to the flat. He rang the bell, she ran down the stairs and they drove off together."

"What sort of car was it?"

She shrugged. "A car is a car. It was just a car."

"And how long was she out for?"

"Several hours."

"Overnight?"

"No, she was always back by midnight at the latest."

"So he might not have been a lover – just a friend, perhaps?"

"No, they were lovers. They kissed when he arrived and when he left. And I could tell from the tone of their voices."

"Really?" Richard was sceptical, but Camille dug him in the ribs and nodded sagely.

"So how long did this go on for?"

"Oh, I would say he came about once a week for perhaps 2 or 3 months."

"So you would be able to identify him if we showed you some photos?"

"I'm afraid not, Inspector. I never actually saw him, you see."

"You never saw him?"

"No – well, only his feet." She gestured at the window high up on the wall. It was barred and partly above and partly below ground. "I live my life in the basement. My window on the world is only about 30 centimetres, so all I can see is people's feet as they walk past. And obviously I can hear their voices, although not very clearly."

"So you can't identify this man in any way, then?"

"All I can tell you, Inspector, is that he wore nice shoes."

"Nice shoes …?"

"Yes, you know … most people who walk past my little window wear trainers or sandals or comfortable old shoes. This man wore proper shoes." She looked at Richard's immaculately polished Marks & Spencer brogues. "Like yours – sort of – but expensive."

Richard huffed momentarily – he thought he had paid quite enough money for his shoes. He opened his mouth to protest but caught sight of the glare that Camille was directing at him and thought better of it.

"Well, … er … thank you, Madame Desfarges. That's very helpful. We'll be in touch if we need to ask you any more questions."

Back out on the street he turned to Camille. "So all we have to do is find the man with the nice shoes. In a city renowned for its haute couture and designer labels, that should be a piece of cake – or should I say gateau?"


	6. Chapter 6

Later that evening Richard sat in his armchair, distractedly stirring his tea. He was trying to run through the case in his mind but his attention kept wandering. No matter how he tried, he was unable to banish the image of Camille: arguing with him, admonishing him, smiling at him. Her presence was disturbing in the extreme. Somehow she had succeeded in worming her way back into his life and he wasn't sure whether he was glad – wonderfully, ecstatically, glad – or fearful of what the future might bring and of the inevitable second parting which in all likelihood would come within the next few days. He had forgotten how satisfying it was to work with her, to have someone to discuss the case with who knew how he operated and how his mind worked. But would it have been better if they had not met again? He had banished her once from his life and that had been hard, but he knew the second time would be harder still.

He hardly noticed when Patterson tripped daintily through the cat flap and began to wind himself around his legs. Encouraged by Richard's lack of reaction the cat leaped nimbly up into his lap and settled down comfortably. Richard began to stroke him absent-mindedly.

"So what am I to do, Patterson, hmm? The same as always, I guess - nothing. Better solve this crime quickly and get back to London and safety – and the sooner the better." Patterson turned on his back and exposed his tummy for tickling. Richard obliged. "Well at least I can read _you_ like a book. If only women were as easy …" Patterson purred rhapsodically. Richard stood up and carried the by now euphoric cat over to the bed, placing him carefully down in his accustomed place.

"Come along, my little feline friend, Zebedee says it's time for bed."

* * *

Camille arrived early the next morning. She had promised to call for him on her way to work but she was up with the lark and decided to surprise him with an early visit – and if she managed to catch him in those pyjamas, so much the better! He let her in still tousle-haired from a somewhat restless night. She thought privately how much more attractive he looked before he had been washed, brushed and pressed into his habitual greyness.

"You're early!" he complained.

"You're grumpy!" she retorted. "And it's far too nice a day to be grumpy. Look, I've brought croissants in case you don't like your new bread. I'll make the breakfast while you shower and shave."

He disappeared towards the shower room. "Nice pyjamas, by the way!"" she called after him. "Are they new?" He didn't respond.

She pottered round the kitchen, opening the cupboards and searching for what she needed. "Is this where you keep your tea?" she called, waving a caddy covered with pictures of elephants. He padded out of the bathroom, wearing only his trousers and an unbuttoned shirt. Her eyes widened a little but she said nothing.

"No," he said, "there's a packet of teabags in that cupboard over there." She went to return the caddy to the shelf when it rattled. "What's that?" she asked, opening the lid. A key tumbled out. Richard strode across and seized it.

"What is it? A spare front door key?"

"No, it looks like the key to some kind of locker to me. The forensics team must have missed it when they searched the flat."

"I haven't seen any lockers in this building – perhaps she had a locker at work?"

"Could be – let's go and find out." He started to button his shirt feverishly.

"Richard! I've just made your breakfast. This can wait for a while. Sit and eat!" She snap-pointed to the table. A slice of toast and a croissant sat on his plate awaiting him. He sat down meekly and Camille poured him a mug of tea and one for herself (she actually preferred coffee but couldn't be bothered to brew it).

"How is your toast?"

"Mmmm, yum yum." He took a bite, knowing he would have to pretend, to placate Camille. To his surprise it was actually very good – not quite what he had at home, but much better than he had expected. A slow smile spread over his face.

"Good, I will tell my aunt that you approve of her bread, and perhaps she will forgive you for being rude." She nibbled at a croissant.

Richard made himself another piece of toast, then demolished the croissant as well (he was getting used to them). Patterson raised a sleepy head from the duvet, jumped down and began to twine himself again round Richard's legs.

"What a sweet cat! He's clearly taken to you, Richard – which is ironic, considering your views on pets in the home!"

Richard was somewhat nonplussed. "Yes, well … We can't sit here all day, there's work to do so let's get on." They made their way south, across the river, and along to the Interpol building. Here, they found Gino and Brad studying the CCTV footage they had retrieved.

"The Casino has CCTV covering the entrance and the tables. We're still trawling through it but at the moment there's no sign of Hannah, Chief."

"But we _have_ found her on a CCTV situated about 100 metres from the casino" added Brad. "Look – there she is walking along the road. Then she crosses over and we lose sight of her."

"Good. Well, keep looking, please. In the meantime, I have found a key hidden in Hannah's apartment." He held it out. "Anyone got any ideas?"

"A hotel room key?"

"It looks more like a locker key, Sir."

"Yes, that's what we thought. Did Hannah have a locker here?"

"Well yes," Brad said slowly, "but we searched it after … and all it had in it was an umbrella and a spare pair of shoes. And that key doesn't look as if it would fit one of our lockers."

"Perhaps it's from a safety deposit box?" offered André.

"Yes, quite possibly. Would you two be able to check out any likely sites in the vicinity?"

"Gino and Brad are obviously busy with the CCTV footage." Interrupted André. "Let me do it – I'll check out some of the local banks."

"Thanks, André, that's really helpful." Richard handed over the key. André left, Brad and Gino went back to the CCTV footage. Richard took off his jacket and hung it on the back of his chair. Gino winked at Camille, who found it hard to suppress a smile. But she knew better than to say anything.

"So what do we know about Mr Nice Shoes?"

"Well, he's almost certainly married."

"And you know this … how?"

She was sorely tempted to attribute it to her famous instinct, but refrained. "Because they never stayed out overnight. If you're having an affair, you spend the night with someone, don't you?"

Richard began to stutter, so she continued smoothly. "Look, he picks her up in a car, so they're not going somewhere local. They don't want to be seen together. And she's always back before midnight. So why don't they spend the night together? Because he has to go home to his wife. He can easily tell her he has to work late at the office, but how would he explain being away all night?"

"Mmm, could be. But where do they go for their assignations?"

"They park the car somewhere and have sex in the back?"

Mortifyingly, Richard blushed. "No, I don't think that's Mr Nice Shoes' modus operandi . Somehow I can't see him slumming it. No, my guess is they use a hotel, and I'm pretty sure I know where that might be. Do you have access to a car?"

"Yes, I can take one from the pool. But where are we going?"

"Back to the crime scene, of course!"

* * *

"You know, one of the things that has always bugged me about this case is why _here?"_ They were back at the disused factory where Hannah's body had been discovered. "How did she know this place even existed – it's miles away from her home and her workplace. I think she knew it because they passed on their way to their … er … trysts. So if you could just use your phone to find out what hotels there are in the area – not many I would think, as it's hardly a tourist mecca here – we may just be able to track them down."

Camille quickly brought up a list and scrolled through it. "Well, there are 3 within a couple of miles. Shall we give it a go?"

At the first hotel they drew a blank; no-one recognised the photo they handed round. At the second, however, the receptionist stared hard at it and said "Yes, I know her. That's Madame Lavalle. She and her husband come here quite regularly."

"When was the last time you saw them?"

"About a week ago. Let me check the register … Yes, they were here last Tuesday."

"What time did they normally arrive?"

"Usually about 7ish. Then they would go out for a meal and return an hour or two later."

"And they left …?"

"Presumably in the morning. I don't know as I go off duty at 10 in the evening. It was a bit odd, actually. He always paid in advance when they checked in, and always in cash. Most guests use credit cards, but he never did."

"So no bank details. Do you have an address for them?"

The receptionist pulled out a registration form and showed it to Richard and Camille. The address given was Hannah's apartment.

"Could you describe Monsieur Lavalle?"

The girl struggled to come up with anything. "Well, he's a very nice man – always very pleasant. Quite old but smartly dressed … brown hair … sorry, that's about it."

"When you say _quite old,_ do you mean in his sixties, for example?"

"Oh no … younger than _you_ , for example."

Richard suddenly felt like Methuselah. The girl must be in her late teens, so he supposed that to her he _must_ seem ancient. "So … in his thirties, perhaps?"

"Maybe. Or forties. But quite a bit older than me."

They were clearly not going to get any further, so they thanked the girl and made their way back to the car.

"Lavalle is a pretty common name, and it is probably false anyway, but I suppose we should do a search …?" Camille suggested.

"Yes, when Brad and Gino have finished with the CCTV – but I suspect it will be a waste of time."

Back at the office Brad and Gino had completed their examination of the CCTV evidence. There were no further sightings of Hannah. Richard was in the middle of asking them to search for anyone called Lavalle when André returned; he was clearly in some excitement.

"I found it!"

"That was quick!"

"Well, I got lucky – it was only the second or third place I tried. The bank in the rue de Rivoli. There's a box there held in Hannah's name, and guess what it contained?" He opened his briefcase and pulled out a large packet of notes in an evidence bag. "Twenty-five thousand euros! And a list of phone numbers." He held a piece of paper out to Richard, who scanned it quickly then handed it round.

"Does anyone recognise these names?"

"Carlos is the manager of the casino, and Jean-Luc is his deputy", Camille said quietly. Everyone fell uncomfortably silent as the implications of this discovery slowly sank in.

"But why would Hannah …?" Brad began, falteringly.

"It looks as if we may found our leak, Chief." Gino spoke in an unusually subdued voice.

"It would certainly appear so. But let's not jump to conclusions."

"Well, I for one don't believe it. Hannah wasn't like that!"

"It's very decent of you to stick up for your colleague like that, Brad, but I'm afraid it's not looking good for Hannah." André spoke seriously, as if unable to believe what he was saying.

Richard's brain was racing. "Right, well, I think we all need to time to assimilate this unexpected turn of events, so I suggest we take a break and re-convene after lunch."

The team dispersed. Richard shrugged himself back into his jacket and made for the door. "Camille? Are you coming?" She was staring fixedly at her screen. "What is it?"

"It's the CCTV footage of Hannah in the street. Look!" She replayed it a couple of times. "Look at what happens just before she crosses the street." Richard leant in and peered closer. Camille froze the footage. "You see, she's seen someone! That's a look of recognition on her face. She crosses the road because she's recognised someone. Her mouth is open – I bet she's calling his or her name but it's too noisy and the person doesn't hear. So now her pace has quickened, she's trying to catch up but there are too many people. Now here she's almost at the casino but then she disappears. Why?"

"And who is she following? Could it be Mr Nice Shoes? Run the footage again, let's see if we can spot him."

"There! That's him, I'm sure of it." Camille pointed to a figure in jeans, short-sleeved shirt and with a baseball cap pulled firmly down on his face. It was impossible to distinguish his features as he strode quickly down the street.

"But hold on, he's disappeared too! Where the hell has he gone?" Richard was seriously perplexed.

"I know where he's gone – there's a side entrance to the casino down that little alley. The camera can't see it but it's there. And I bet that's where Hannah goes too. What time is this footage? 8.13 pm. Yes, that would fit. That's about when I saw Hannah hanging about in the corridor. She must have been listening to the man in the cap talking to Carlos."

"But this is making less and less sense! If Hannah is leaking information to the gang, what did she hear that made her run away? And why would she then incriminate herself by telling André that she had made a breakthrough in the case?"

"And who killed her then? It can't have been anyone from the casino gang – they were benefitting from her information, so why kill the duck that lays the golden egg?"

"Goose", he murmured automatically. She rolled her eyes for form's sake, but truth to tell she had seen it coming.

"Run the footage on" said Richard suddenly, "let's see if she comes out." They watched silently for about another ten minutes.

"There she is! She looks upset, see - she's hurrying to get away." Camille pointed to the figure battling her way through the crowds.

"So where is Mr Baseball Cap?"

A few minutes later, the man in the cap strolled back into the picture.

"He's trying to get a taxi. And now he's taken out his phone, he's making a call."

"No, he's not dialling. He's _answering_ a call. And now getting into a taxi."

Richard rubbed his temples in despair. " _None_ of this is making sense. What am I missing? Is Mr Baseball Cap and Mr Nice Shoes the same person? Has Hannah's murder got anything to do with the casino gang? Or is it to do with her affair – a jealous wife, perhaps? And even if we come up with a motive, there is still the question of opportunity: how on earth did the killer do it without being caught on the CCTV?" He clasped his hands behind his neck and sank his head onto the table.

"Whatever she overheard at the casino _must_ be what she was ringing André about – the time fits."

"The time fits … yes, yes _… the time_." His brain suddenly started to whirr. "Re-wind that footage and play it again!" She did as he asked. "Freeze it there! Now look at the time!"

There was a long pause as Camille stared at the screen and worked out the implications of what she was seeing. She turned a shocked face to Richard.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"Almost certainly."

"So … what now?"

"Get the car – we have a couple of journeys to make. And then we need to call everyone together!"


	7. Chapter 7

"You know," said Richard, surveying the group of people assembled in one of the interview rooms, "there have been quite a few similarities between this case and the one that I was originally sent to the Caribbean to solve. To start with, a police officer was murdered – and in a seemingly impossible way. If I had learned the lessons from the past, I would have solved this case much more easily."

As well as the team, Bernard Taylor and Jules Perrot were present at the meeting, at Richard's express invitation.

"So does that mean that you know who killed Hannah?" asked Brad eagerly.

"Oh yes. Hannah was killed by the only person who had the means, the motive and the opportunity."

"But how did the killer manage to avoid being caught on the CCTV, Chief?"

"He didn't. Look …" Richard nodded to Camille, who played the footage from the murder scene, starting with Hannah's arrival in her car. "You see?"

"But … but … there's nothing until André arrives in his car!"

"Exactly. And that is the point. Hannah was alive until that very moment. _You_ killed her, André, didn't you?"

Brad and Gino gasped in disbelief. André gave a short laugh. " _Me?_ That's perfectly ridiculous."

"That's a very serious allegation you have made, Inspector. I trust you can prove it?" Bernard Taylor's voice was sharp and held just a hint of menace.

"Yes, sir, I believe I can."

"But why on earth would _I_ want to kill Hannah?"

"To stop her revealing your dirty little secret – that you have been leaking confidential information about Interpol inquiries and that you are, in effect, in the pay of a bunch of gangsters."

"Go on, Inspector." Bernard Taylor was suddenly very interested indeed.

"You have been lying to us from the very beginning, André, and have done your best to throw us off the scent. And it almost worked. Had it not been for the PJ deciding to place an undercover officer in the casino" – he indicated Camille – "we might never have cracked the case at all.

You told us that Hannah had no boyfriend. We now know that was a lie – you were having an affair with her. You may have thought that your visits to her apartment went unnoticed because you never went in, but you didn't bargain for Madame Desfarges, the concierge, and her interest in footwear."

"Those are _very_ smart shoes" interjected Camille. "What are they - Hugo Boss? Magnanni? Paul Smith?"

André looked bewildered. "You see, the concierge only has a very narrow window onto the street, so she tends to be very interested in what people wear on their feet. She told us the man who visited Hannah at least once a week wore _nice shoes."_

André shrugged. "So? Thousands of men have shoes like these."

"I don't think so, not at _that_ price tag" said Richard drily. "But no matter – let us continue. We tracked you to your little love nest – a hotel near the ring road, one of the Ibis chain. A pretty anonymous place, but the receptionist had no difficulty in recognising Monsieur and Madame Lavalle from the photographs we showed her."

André saw it was pointless to deny it. "OK, so we were having an affair – that's not a crime, is it?"

"Fortunately not, or we would be forced to arrest a significant proportion of the population. You went to some considerable trouble to keep your relationship a secret from everyone, and it was really just bad luck that Hannah decided to check out the casino on the very day you called in for your latest payoff. We have it all on CCTV. Camille, if you would …?"

Camille ran the footage and all eyes turned to the screen. "You see, here is Hannah on her way to the casino. Then she stops suddenly – she has caught sight of someone she knows. And _there_ you are – the man in the baseball cap. She calls your name but it's noisy and you don't hear so she crosses the road and follows you. And then you disappear down this alleyway."

Camille took up the story. "The side entrance to the casino is down that alleyway. Well, you would know that as I expect you had been there many times already. You made your way to the Manager's office. And Hannah followed you. How do we know this? Because I was working there under cover and I saw her in the corridor. She had obviously been listening to the conversation you were having with Carlos. What were you doing? Giving tip-offs? Collecting money? Whatever it was, it was enough to make her realise that _you_ were the source of all the leaks that had kept the gang one step ahead of Interpol and the national police forces. I saw her face when she came back up the corridor towards me, and it was the face of someone in deep shock."

"So here is Hannah reappearing from the alleyway" Richard continued. "She is clearly upset and trying to get away as quickly as possible. And a few minutes later, here _you_ are again, waiting for a taxi. Now your phone rings, and you take a call."

Camille froze the screen. "Now take a look at the time. 8.23 pm – the exact time that Hannah called André to set up a meeting."

"Pure coincidence. You can't prove that the man in the baseball cap is me. And you are forgetting we have already established that Hannah was responsible for the leaks. You remember the safety deposit box?"

"Ah yes. The safety deposit box. That was really very clever. You knew I was a tea-drinker so it was likely I would at some point use the tea caddy in Hannah's apartment. It was _you_ who gave me the key the day I arrived, so it would have been easy to get a copy made, and let yourself in one day when the concierge was out. And then, if I recall correctly, it was _you_ who suggested it was a locker key and _you_ who so helpfully offered to search for the depository and _you_ who 'found' the only evidence which incriminated Hannah. But you see Camille and I have just been to visit that bank – and do you know, that deposit box was only opened two days ago, _after_ Hannah's death. The clerk told us it was opened by a man on behalf of his mother and he too had no difficulty in recognising your photo. So you see, the game is up, André."

Lieutenant Sorel bit his lip.

"The only thing we haven't found is the gun. It's a common make and we've checked – you do have a licence. My guess is it's hidden in plain sight – you wouldn't want to keep it at home in case your wife or children found it. My guess is that it's here on the premises somewhere. Gino: would you be kind enough to search the Lieutenant's desk and locker, please?"

Gino nodded curtly and left the room.

"Did you intend to kill Hannah? Maybe not: perhaps you tried to pretend you were only acting as a decoy. Perhaps you tried to persuade her that you were doing it so the pair of you could start a new life together somewhere exotic …? But Hannah was smart – _a good copper_ is how you described her – and she was having none of it, was she? You knew she would report you so you had to kill her. And you very nearly got away with it."

André decided to brazen it out. "Well, good luck with getting a conviction. It's all circumstantial, you haven't a shred of real evidence."

Gino came back into the room, grim-faced. He was carrying an evidence bag.

"No? Well, if that gun that Gino has just found turns out to be the one that killed Hannah, that's not going to look good for you, is it?"

He turned to Jules Perrot, who was looking rather shaken. "Jules, neither I nor any Interpol officer has any powers of arrest here, so would you do the honours, please?"

As Lieutenant Sorel was being led away, Brad caught his arm. "You killed Hannah – our colleague and friend – for _money_ , for sheer greed?"

André shook off his hand and shrugged resignedly. "I could never earn enough for Nathalie to spend", he said simply.

"So this is all because you couldn't control your wife's extravagance?" Gino was contemptuous. "And I really liked and respected you. Just goes to show what a good judge of character I am!"

Once Jules had taken André away an uneasy silence settled over the room. Bernard Taylor returned to his office. Gino and Brad looked decidedly white and shaken. Richard fidgeted, uncertain of what to say.

"I really hate it when a police officer turns bad" he muttered to Camille. "It leaves such a nasty taste."

"Especially when he seemed such a nice man. It just goes to show: you can never tell what someone is really like from outward appearances." He shot her a quick glance, but she had transferred her attention to the junior members of the team. "Are you OK?" she asked Brad, rubbing his arm sympathetically. You've just had a big shock."

"Yes, thank you, Major. I was just thinking about poor Hannah – you know, finding out that the man she loved was a traitor and then being killed by him. She was such a good friend and colleague – she didn't deserve that."

"I'm sorry not to have had the chance of meeting her", said Richard. "She sounds like someone worth knowing – even if she did name her cat Patterson!"

"What's wrong with that, Sir?" asked Brad, glad to be diverted onto a lighter topic.

"It's just that the Commissioner of Police on Saint-Marie was called Patterson – and he was the Inspector's nemesis and personal bête noire!"

"Well I admit it's a bit of an unusual name for a cat, but perhaps Hannah was a fan of American thriller writers?" suggested Brad.

"Or it's as the concierge says, a play of words on _patte._ "

"Mind you", added Gino thoughtfully, "Hannah did once tell me when she had had a bit too much to drink that years ago when she was very young she had a bit of a fling with a police officer when she was on holiday in the Caribbean!"

Richard and Camille looked at each other, appalled.

"It couldn't be …"

"No, of course not, it's a common name …"

"But still …"

A slow smile spread over Richard's face. Of course it was extremely improbable, but in the unlikely event that he came across Selwyn Patterson again he would be sure to drop Hannah's name into the conversation, just – you know - to be sure …

A shrill ringing interrupted his reverie. Brad grabbed his phone.

"Oh my God … the baby … it's coming!"

"Well, what are you waiting for – get over to the hospital. Go!"

Gino sprang into life. "Come on, I've got my bike outside, I'll take you!" The two rushed out, leaving Richard idly wondering if Gino's bike had a sidecar.

"No, it doesn't" said Camille, reading his thoughts. "It would be madness in the Paris traffic! But Brad can ride pillion."

"Well," said Richard rather wearily, "I suppose we had better complete the paperwork on the case." He sat down at his computer and started to key in the relevant details. A few minutes later, the door opened and Bernard Taylor re-appeared.

"I see Gino and Brad are on maternity duty" he said good-humouredly, "which gives me the opportunity for a private word with you both." He perched on the edge of a desk, and shook his head sadly. "This is a bad business, Inspector, there's no point in denying that. But thanks to you we have solved two crimes and I'm very grateful. Your Super back in London was quite right – he said you were the man for the job."

Richard's heart swelled with pride; in his experience praise from above was rare. "Well, that's very kind of you, Sir, and I'm sorry that the outcome turned out to be such a distressing one for the Department. But it was a team effort – I couldn't have done it without Camille – er, Major Bordey – and Brad and Gino were also invaluable."

"Yes, well I have already commended Major Bordey to the PJ for her excellent work on this case. And now I suppose you will want to be off home back to London. I will get my PA to make the travel arrangements for you."

For some reason Richard found himself surprised. "You mean … I am free to go?"

"Yes of course, dear boy, once you've completed the paperwork."

"You haven't been speaking to Chief Superintendent Hewitt in London, then?"

"No, of course not. I must say, I am a little puzzled. Did you expect me to?"

"Oh no, Sir. It's just that … well, when I went to Saint-Marie it was supposed to be just for the one case but then the Commissioner and my boss at the Met got together and told me I had to stay."

"Well, I can assure you, Inspector, that whatever may have happened in the Caribbean I wouldn't dream of keeping you here against your will. I am no macchiavellian manipulator! Of course the team is now lacking a leader, and if you _wanted_ to stay I would be delighted to have you. Actually, from what I have seen of your work I think Interpol would suit you very well, but it is entirely your decision."

He turned to Camille. "And you, Major Bordey, now that we have lost Sergeant Morris there is a place for you too on the team if you are interested."

Camille nodded, and glanced at Richard who was clearly struggling to control his reactions.

"Well … er … it's very … um … flattering, Sir, and Interpol does sound an attractive place to work, but I think I really need to go home."

"That's a pity, Inspector, but of course I quite understand. I believe this is your first trip to Paris? Well, you have hardly had time to see much of our beautiful city – and believe me there _is_ much to see. May I suggest that you take tomorrow as a day off and go and view some of the sights – I am sure Major Bordey would be happy to show you around – and then we will organise your homeward travel for the following day. And of course if you should change your mind in the meantime, just let me know!"

He shook Richard firmly by the hand and wished him a safe journey, then returned to his office. Richard turned to Camille with a feeling of wonder.

"I can't believe it, I really am going home!"


	8. Chapter 8

Early next morning Camille arrived at the apartment, once more bearing croissants. If she was hoping for another peek at Richard in his pyjamas she was disappointed: he was not to be caught out twice, and was already fully dressed. A little too fully, actually.

"You're not seriously planning on going sightseeing in _that_ attire? It's only 8.30 and it's already nearly 30 degrees. Really, Richard, you _can't_ wear a suit in this weather!"

"I seem to remember you saying much the same in Saint-Marie but I survived, so just watch me."

"No, I absolutely refuse to be seen with you like that. It's not as if you're on duty or indeed that anyone here knows you're a police officer."

"Well, that's that, then. I didn't bring any other clothes."

She banged her head with frustration. "Okay, so at least get rid of the jacket and the tie." She advanced on him in a determined manner; knowing she was quite capable of taking matters into her own hands he decided to comply with her request which he fully recognised was really an order. He even undid the top two buttons of his shirt.

"There, is that better? Do I pass the Bordey test?"

"Well, it will have to do, I suppose. Now let's have some breakfast."

As he sipped his tea and devoured his toast and croissant, she brought him up to date with the latest news. "And Brad's wife has given birth to a little boy – he texted me first thing this morning."

Richard made the appropriate noises but truth to tell he had no great interest in babies; they were an alien race to him and young Rosie was the first and only infant he had ever really come into contact with.

"Don't you ever regret not having children?"

Richard spluttered into his tea and succumbed to a wild coughing fit. Somewhat red in the face, he realised that Camille was still awaiting an answer to her question. "Well … er … I … er … well, I've never given it much thought – not having a … er … you know … wife or partner. But I don't think I'd be much good at it. I'm … well … you know, not great at the … um … nurturing bit."

"That's only because you never try. I'm sure you'd feel differently if you had a child of your own. I know _I_ would – and of course my mother can't wait for grandchildren, although she's almost given up on me now. And if you dare to say another word about dolls with wonky eyes or mature riojas I will throw this croissant at you, jam and all!"

Richard did not dare. The conversation was becoming quite inappropriate, so he changed the subject.

"So where are you taking me today?"

"Well, there's so much to choose from – much too much to do in a day. But I thought we might start with Notre Dame, since it's only a stone's throw away. Unless you have already visited it?"

"No, no time. I've heard the bells of course and seen it from the outside – all those flying buttresses. They certainly knew how to build in those days."

"So come on, then, if you've finished your breakfast – let's make a start!"

Ten minutes later they were on the _parvis_ gazing at the western façade of the cathedral. "It's one of the earliest Gothic cathedrals in Europe", Camille pointed out helpfully.

"Mmm." Richard was non-committal. "Let's go inside." He bought a guidebook and studied it carefully as they walked around the ancient building. Finally they emerged blinking back into the brilliant sunlight.

"Well?"

"The outside is impressive, but the inside is too dark. Not a patch on Westminster Abbey." He tried not to sound triumphal.

"But it's _older_ than Westminster Abbey."

"Older does not necessarily mean better, Camille! Let's move on. I'd like to visit the Louvre next."

As they crossed the Seine and made their way along the right bank, they were able to view the beach in much closer detail. Richard grimaced in annoyance as his shoes scrunched on stray deposits of sand which had made their way onto the pavement. Try as he might, he could not understand what the Parisians saw in their 'beach'; to him it did not remotely resemble the seaside. Camille laughed at the expression on his face as they made their way along past the rows of deckchairs with their sunbathing occupants.

"I won't suggest we take a break here – I think you'd have a meltdown if you found sand in your tea! Now we could spend all day at the Louvre – it's an enormous museum. So what is it you want to see? Let me guess – La Joconde!"

"Well that's where you're wrong, Camille" he replied smugly. "The only thing I want to see is the Mona Lisa."

She could not resist an eye-roll. "Same thing" she replied briefly.

"How can it be the same thing? The names aren't even remotely similar!"

"The painting's proper title is La Gioconda in Italian, or La Joconde, as we say. The lady is Lisa del Giocondo. Mona Lisa is just what the English called her – probably because they were too lazy to learn the proper Italian name, being such hopeless linguists!"

Richard bristled at the slur on the linguistic abilities of his fellow countryman. He searched his brain for a suitable retort, but common honesty forced him to acknowledge that there was much truth in Camille's accusation so he contented himself with a snort of disgust and strode briskly ahead. It was starting to get very hot indeed, and he was grateful for the comparative cool of the corridors when they finally entered the Louvre.

Camille led the way until they arrived in a fairly small anteroom, and there it was. Not that it was easy to view with a crowd of tourists of mixed nationalities crammed in front of the painting, all trying to take photos and some - a Japanese group among them - taking selfies. But Richard was patient and eventually managed to worm his way to the front where, although jostled uncomfortably and poked in the ribs by other people's guidebooks and selfie sticks, he was finally able to contemplate the most famous painting in the world.

"Well?" asked Camille as they made their way back through the corridors and out of the building. "What did you think? Remember, it's not French – we just look after it - so you don't have to find something disparaging to say!"

"It's very small."

"Is that it? The famous detective's sole pronouncement on the most beautiful portrait in the world? _It's very small._ "

"Well it is!"

She couldn't stop laughing. "What a Philistine you are, Richard! But yes, I know, many people are surprised by its size and expect it to be a lot bigger. But size isn't everything, you know!"

"Well, I'm glad to have seen it, anyway. Now can we sit down somewhere and have a drink and some lunch?"

Camille stopped at a stall and bought some filled baguettes and a couple of beers and led the way into the Tuileries garden, where they managed to find a shady seat.

"Sorry, no banana sandwiches!" she announced blithely, "you have a choice of cheese or salami." He started to mutter darkly about the lack of proper bread and proper cheese, but she cut him off mid-sentence. "Well, you have bread at home, so you should have brought your own sandwiches if it's such a big deal."

That shut him up. He gave her a darkling look but began to munch resolutely through his baguette. Somewhere in the distance a brass band was playing and children were chasing each other up and down the dusty alleyways. Half of Paris seemed to be either stretched out on the grass or milling up and down. The midday heat was unbearable, so Richard surreptitiously rolled up the sleeves of his shirt – just a little. Camille noticed, but knew better than to comment.

"What is this place, anyway?"

"It was once the garden of the Tuileries Palace, where the royal family lived some of the time. But the palace was burned down in the 19th century, so now it forms part of the great view from the Louvre right up to the Arc de Triomphe at the top of the Champs Elysées . And before you say it, I quite agree that the parks in London are far superior!"

"Well, they are certainly less formal – and far less dusty! And much more green – we're good at greenery and trees in England."

"That's because you get so much more rain."

"Very probably. But if you've finished, let's go – I take it there is more to see?"

They wandered companionably through the gardens and into the Place de la Concorde, with its central obelisk. It was a huge square, and the traffic whizzing round reminded Richard of Hyde Park Corner.

"This is where the guillotine was set up during the Revolution. Louis XVI and Marie-Antoinette, amongst many others, met their ends here."

Richard was shocked: to execute a reigning monarch in such a public place in front of a baying mob did not fit with his ideas of duty and decorum.

"Well, what about the English – you executed your King Charles in a very similar manner!"

"But not the Queen as well!"

"Well, if my history is correct, I seem to remember that you actually executed _two_ queens! We only executed _one!_ "

That was incontrovertible. Richard bit his lip, for once nonplussed. "Well, it was a long time ago" he offered lamely, and anyway that was just … well … woman trouble!"

"So that's the answer to any woman who steps out of line or becomes inconvenient, is it? Off with her head?"

He knew she was teasing him but he couldn't stop himself from blustering. "No … not at all … of course not … this is a ridiculous conversation, Camille!"

She nodded happily – of course it was, arguing about which country had the worst regicide record had to be one of the silliest things she had ever done, but he took everything so seriously that winding him up was just irresistible. She nudged him towards the nearest bridge.

"Come on, Eiffel Tower next! We can get the Metro."

Emerging from the subterranean gloom of the metro station (he had felt obliged to point out that the London Underground network was far more extensive), Richard found himself staring up at the monstrous ironwork of one of the most famous towers in the world.

"Well, I'm sure you don't have anything like _this_ in London!"

"Not in London, no, but we do have a splendid tower in Blackpool."

"But that's only half the size! Come on, Richard, admit it: the Tour Eiffel is far superior!"

But he was not going to give in. "It may be smaller, but Blackpool Tower has a Ballroom!" he announced defiantly. "You don't have _that!"_

"True, but we have better views. Come on, here's the queue for the lift." She grabbed his arm and dragged him to the front of the long snake of tourists. Arriving at the ticket office she flashed her badge, shouting "Police!", and barged straight through the barrier.

"Camille!" he hissed, agitatedly, "you can't do that, it's an abuse of police power!"

"Well, do you want to wait for an hour in the queue? Or maybe you'd prefer to take the stairs?"

Richard looked up through the web of tangled metal and paled at the sight of the flights of steps which wound their vertiginous way up to the viewing platforms. They looked incredibly open and exposed. He shuddered and closed his eyes briefly, only to be bundled unceremoniously into the lift by Camille. A few moments later he was stepping out onto the best viewing platform in Paris.

"Well, really, Richard! You hardly looked at a thing!" Camille scolded him as they emerged once more from the lift. Richard was just grateful to be back on terra firma; he had really not enjoyed the sensation of being suspended so high above the rest of the city. Always cautious and plagued with visions of plunging hundreds of metres to a gory death, the roof terrace at his apartment had been more than enough for him and the top viewing platform of the tower had just been too much. Granted, it was enclosed so there was no possibility of falling off, but so much of it was see-through and felt – to him – incredibly slender and flimsy that he backed nervously away from the edge and so missed the best of the views.

"Well, I'm not that good with heights and I swear I felt it move when the wind blew."

"Nonsense! They wouldn't let people up there if it wasn't perfectly safe. You're far too cautious, Richard."

Well it was true and he knew it, but he couldn't help it. He liked to feel safe and secure in a known environment. Take him out of his comfort zone and he saw endless dangers when there were none. He had never really learned to relax with the world around him – in difficult situations he just froze or walked away. He often wished he could apply the courage that came so easily to him in his work to other situations.

"Well, the time is getting on and we have a couple more places left to visit, so let's go. I think we'll walk this time."

They wandered along the left bank of the Seine. Tourist boats plied up and down the river, broadcasting their tinny commentaries which tailed off as they passed out of earshot. Camille explained that they were called _bateaux mouches_ and suggested they might finish their day with a trip ("there's a very fine view of Notre Dame from the river"). But Richard had had enough risky encounters for one day and firmly vetoed the idea of venturing onto the water ("I'd rather watch them from the roof garden with a beer in my hand").

"OK", said Camille as they arrived at an imposing looking building right on the banks of the river, "here we are at the second most famous museum in Paris, the Musée d'Orsay."

Richard looked wonderingly at the huge building. "It looks more like a railway station than a museum!"

"Well, that's just what it was!" answered Camille triumphantly. "It was converted about 30 years ago and now houses the biggest collection of Impressionist art in the world. We can't spend long here, but I promise you it's worth a visit. There's one painting in particular that I want you to see."

They went into the huge, light-filled main gallery and Richard was stunned by the succession of famous paintings on display – the sort of paintings that were reproduced time and again in calendars, posters, greeting cards and jigsaw puzzles (he certainly had a puzzle at home which featured one of the Renoirs he saw). Camille led the way past Manet, Pissarro, Degas, Gauguin and Cezanne and stopped in front of a very familiar view.

"So, did you know Monet painted the Houses of Parliament?"

"No, and I've never really seen them like that, with the fog swirling round. The air is much cleaner in London now."

"Well, you'll soon be back there", she said rather sadly.

"Yes." Of course he would be relieved to get back home, but somehow the prospect didn't excite him as much as he would have expected. In fact, it felt as if a cloud had descended. Surely he wouldn't be sorry to leave Paris?

He stared at the picture for some time. "It's an interesting painting, but on the whole I prefer Turner's view – you know, he painted the Houses of Parliament going up in flames in the 1830s?" He heard her sigh, and added quickly "But I've never seen so many famous pictures displayed together at any one time."

"And all of them – well, nearly all – French!"

He squirmed a little and began a lecture about the corresponding (and mostly superior) merits of British artists such as Turner, Gainsborough and Constable, promising rashly to take her to the National and Tate Galleries if she ever came to London, but she had drifted away and was not listening to him.

Their tour of the museum was of necessity brief and they re-emerged within the hour into brilliant sunshine and punishing heat. Both were in need of rest and refreshment so Camille suggested a café situated close to a pedestrian bridge, where Richard could sip tea and she could indulge in something colder. They sat quietly watching Parisians and tourists coming and going across the bridge, appreciating the absence of roaring traffic and choking fumes.

"This is the _Pont des Arts_."

"Oh?" The name meant nothing to him.

Camille sighed. This was Richard, of course it didn't. "It's the bridge where couples used to attach padlocks" she explained helpfully.

"I'm sorry …?"

"Oh come on, Richard, you've heard of the tradition: a couple scratch their initials on a padlock, attach it to the railings and throw the key into the river."

"Yes, I've heard of it but I've never understood why on earth anyone would want to do something like that."

"It's a way of showing their commitment to each other, a romantic gesture, that's all." She looked at his blank face. "But I guess you're not really into romantic gestures, are you?"

"I just don't see why it's necessary. What's wrong with a nice bunch of flowers, for example – or a box of chocolates?"

"Well, I'm sure most women would be delighted with either, but they're not lasting, are they? Whereas a love lock is for ever, eternal."

"Well, forgive me for pointing it out, Camille, but I don't see any padlocks here."

"No, well that's because the sheer weight of them – there were over a million, you know – began to damage the handrails, so they had to be removed."

"Not so eternal, then?"

"Perhaps not, but it's the thought that counts. You know, the thought that your love will last for ever."

"Hmmm. I wonder how many of those million couples are still together today. Fewer than half, I'd say."

She gave up. "You're just an old cynic, Richard Poole. If you had ever been in love, you would understand."

He flushed uncomfortably. "I'm not without feeling, Camille" he replied, a little hurt, "it's just that over a long career in the police I've seen the results of so many messy and failed relationships. I know there are some that work, I know some couples live happily ever after, but in my experience an awful lot don't."

"So it's better to avoid relationships altogether than take a risk on one that might not work? Sorry, am I embarrassing you?"

"Yes, but when did that ever stop you?"

"You haven't answered my question. Have you never wanted a proper relationship – you know, someone you can share your life with?"

"Not really," he lied, "I'm used to my own company and probably better that way." He needed to put an end to this conversation, conscious that he was skating on very thin ice, so he stood up. "Come on, I think you said there was one more place to visit. Frankly, I don't think I can take much more, I'm nearly exhausted!"

"Yes, and it's on the way back to the apartment. We just need to carry on following the river. It's a shame you won't be here on Sunday – that's when the secondhand booksellers set up their stalls all along the banks of the Seine."

"I'd have liked to see that. I can always spend time browsing in bookshops."

"But you'll be back in London by then."

"Yes." The cloud descended once more and the silence was heavy between them.

They crossed back onto the Ile de la Cité and this time Camille led Richard to the other end of the island.

"What's this … another church?"

"It's my favourite place in the whole of Paris" she said simply. "The Sainte-Chapelle, part of the medieval royal palace. It has the best early stained glass in the world. Come and see!"

They entered the lower chapel first. Richard looked around: yes, it was nice but really he had seen much better in England. His mind flew to the chapel of King's College, Cambridge, which he knew well from his university days. He opened his mouth to speak but Camille interrupted.

"Don't say _anything_ " she whispered fiercely. "Come upstairs." He followed dutifully up the steps and entered the upper chapel, where his jaw fell open in utter amazement. The sunlight was streaming through a forest of tall narrow windows casting a kaleidoscope of colours onto the flagstones. The walls seemed entirely made of the most brilliant glass he had ever seen, with just a few delicate struts to support it. Richard caught his breath in sheer wonder: it was his moment of epiphany.

"We don't have anything like this in England" he whispered hoarsely.

Camille saw the look on his face and marvelled. Finally. Where the Eiffel Tower had failed, the Sainte-Chapelle had succeeded. Richard had fallen under the spell of Paris.

* * *

NOTE: If you don't know the Sainte-Chapelle, Google it - it's stunning. _My_ favourite place in Paris! Just one more chapter to go. Thank you for all the kind comments.


	9. Chapter 9

Camille's feet were aching. She found somewhere to sit and watched Richard as he completed his tour of the Sainte-Chapelle. The glass in every window told a different story from the Bible and Richard studied each one in turn. For herself, she preferred the overall impression of light and glass without going into too much detail, but Richard's nature required him to examine everything minutely. She didn't mind: it was how he was, and it gave her plenty of time to study _him_. What was it about him, exactly, that she found so fascinating?

She smiled to herself when she recalled her girlhood image of her dream man: tall, dark and handsome just about summed it up, with an outgoing personality and a light-hearted approach to life. Well, she had dated quite a few men like that over the years and none of them had really interested her. And the man in front of her now was nothing like the poster boy of her youthful dreams. He was of no more than medium height, on the verge of middle age and with a fast receding hairline. Pleasant enough to look at, but definitely not handsome. And so reserved and private that it had been a gargantuan task to get to know him at all properly. And yet she knew, without the shadow of a doubt, that he was the one she wanted to spend her life with. Did he feel the same about her? She hoped, suspected, so – but getting him to face and admit it would tax her to the utmost. She thought she knew him pretty well by now – little by little he had let slip the experiences that had shaped and tarnished his life and, with her warmth and intuition, she had gradually come to understand what lay behind the hang-ups and quirks of his prickly personality.

She was jerked out of her reverie by Richard himself, who had come to the end of his tour. "Tired?" he asked.

"Yes, a bit. We've covered a lot of ground today."

"Yes, and … and I wanted to … er … to thank you for … showing me your city." He added quickly, conscious that he had not been very gracious at the time, "and for showing me round Saint-Marie as well. It has been a really good day."

Camille looked a little surprised, but Richard had spoken the truth; he could not remember when he had enjoyed a day more. They had slipped back so easily into their old relationship; yes, they had bickered and argued in their usual fashion, but he had not realised how much he had missed the easy companionship that Camille had always offered. The thought that he would have to say goodbye to her again shortly was a very unwelcome one. Perhaps, he mused, this time he would keep in touch – London and Paris were not that far apart and maybe he would even come back for another visit. It would be good to have a friend. He was beginning to realise just how solitary and bleak an existence he had led. He managed perfectly well by himself of course, but he could not help noticing how much brighter life seemed when Camille was around. Not that he was about to do anything rash or impulsive, mind. Long and bitter experience had after all taught him that the best course was usually to do nothing.

But in the meantime there was no need to say goodbye just yet. "Er … I was wondering if … er …if you would like to join me for a bowl of pasta? I was going to cook myself some and there's plenty …" His voiced tailed off nervously.

Camille beamed. This – for Richard – was progress! He had never invited her to share a meal before, and she guessed that it had taken some courage on his part to even ask.

"I'd love to. It's a warm evening – let's eat out on the roof."

Richard swallowed hard but assented. The roof garden wasn't the most relaxing environment for him, but he supposed that it wouldn't hurt just once. They arrived at the apartment and started wearily to climb the many stairs to the top of the building. After the first flight Camille offered to pop back down to the local shop and get a bottle of wine, leaving Richard to get on with the preparations. He was not unskilled in the kitchen, as long as he stuck to plain, simple dishes, and pasta was well within his capabilities. He soon had the pans bubbling.

Camille returned with the wine and collected a couple of glasses. Richard led the way up on to the roof, carefully carrying the two steaming bowls.

Camille exclaimed with delight when they emerged onto the roof of the building. "Oh but this is lovely – you are so lucky. All these shrubs and flowers. And the views are wonderful!" She ran from side to side, peering over the edge, while Richard watched nervously, resisting the impulse to catch hold of her in case she leant too far over.

"Come and eat your pasta, Camille, before it gets cold" he called, dragging a bench and some chairs to form a rough table and popping open the wine. "I've got some cakes from your aunt's shop to follow."

"Oooh, _tartelettes aux abricots_ – my favourite! How did you know?"

He attempted a gallic shrug. "Lucky guess", adding a little sheepishly, "I've been working my way through your aunt's repertoire. They are my favourites too." He wasn't going to tell her that he had also coaxed the secret of Camille's preferences from Madame Bordey.

"Well, at least there's _something_ French that you appreciate! Mmm, this pasta is good, really tasty! I didn't know you could cook, Richard."

"Well, I can't pretend to any great skill but I can do basic cooking – you have to when you live on your own, unless you want to live on ready meals every day: expensive and unhealthy!"

"I love cooking but I don't have many opportunities. You must come round to mine and I'll make you dinner one night."

"But I'm going home tomorrow."

"Oh yes, of course. For a moment I completely forgot."

Silence descended. Dusk had fallen and the lights were beginning to come on all over Paris. From their vantage point they were able to watch as the illumination spread from the roads to the bridges and then finally to the Eiffel Tower, which blazed like a beacon against the night sky.

"How beautiful it looks", sighed Camille, "I've never seen Paris at night from up high."

"It's a lovely city", he agreed, "quite different from London, of course, but just as wonderful in its own way. I think there's room in the world for both." He was almost as amazed as Camille to hear himself saying this. _What has come over me?_ he wondered. He had always been something of a xenophobe, convinced since boyhood that England and the English were superior to every other nation. Truth to tell, had he analysed his views he would have found them rooted in fear: of the unfamiliar and of anything different from the safe little world he had built for himself. In fact he had not managed too badly in the Caribbean, and had coped perfectly well in Paris once he got over his initial disorientation, but denigrating anything that was not British was proving to be a hard habit to shed.

A plaintive miaow from Patterson interrupted his chain of thought. Richard settled back in his seat, topped up the wine glasses and allowed the insistent cat to jump into his lap "Just for a few minutes, mind!"

"He'll miss you when you're gone." Camille half expected to be asked to look after him, but Richard merely shook his head, stroking Patterson absent-mindedly. "Madame Desfarges will take over, she's devoted to him."

It was getting late and he knew he should ask her to leave. Normally he would have packed days in advance but he hadn't even started yet. _Another ten minutes._ It was incredibly pleasant sitting out on a balmy night watching Paris twinkling and glimmering down below. The wine was doing its job, and what made it all so pleasant was, of course, the company he was in. But it was no good – he had to go home and it had to come to an end. He got up, pushing Patterson off his lap, and started to collect the plates.

Camille knew she should go but stayed rooted to the spot. She watched him disappear with the plates and glasses and realised with a dull thud of the heart that he was about to walk out of her life for the second time unless she did something about it. Whatever he might be feeling – and she was pretty sure that the prospect of going home was growing less and less attractive by the hour – she well knew that he would never have the courage to make the first move, so if she wanted the situation to change it was going to be up to her. And she _did_ want the situation to change – she was in fact quite shocked to discover how much she wanted him.

He returned to the roof terrace to re-arrange the seating, then they both went back inside to the apartment. _Well, it's now or never_ , thought Camille. Just inside the door he turned and opened his mouth to speak. Quite what he was intending to say, she didn't wait to find out: she spun him around, pinned him against the wall and kissed him fiercely.

Richard gasped, and for a split second his overriding instinct was to push her away. No-one had ever invaded his privacy like this before, and he was not sure that he liked it. A split second later and he was sure that he liked it very much. In fact, he felt quite intoxicated, although he had only drunk two or three glasses of wine. His senses were overwhelmed by her scent, the taste of her lips and the feel of her body pressed close to his.

"It would be nice if you put your arms round me."

He gulped. Of course his arms had stayed rigidly by his side, as they always did. Cautiously he edged them around her waist, drawing her even closer to him. She kissed him again, more gently this time, and he found his senses responding as their kiss deepened. She murmured invitingly in his ear.

"Make love to me, Richard. Please."

It was as if his blood had turned to ice. Panic swept over him. He froze, unable to respond.

"What is it? Tell me … Don't you want to?"

"Yes … yes … of course I do, but …" His voice trailed off miserably.

"But …?"

There was a long pause while he struggled for control. It was the hardest thing he had ever done, but somehow he forced himself to speak. His stared hard at a patch of the wall somewhere over her left shoulder, his voice low and barely audible.

"Camille, in the whole of my life I've asked a total of four women out for a drink. Two refused, one laughed and the other was murdered the same day. I gave up after that. I'm sorry, I … I have nothing to offer you."

A wave of anger surged over her: anger at all those who had so badly damaged this man and for so long. His parents, who had sent him away to boarding school at far too early an age and starved him of the love he needed; the other boys at school who had bullied him for being different and the teachers who had turned a blind eye; his work colleagues who had mocked and ignored him; those anonymous women who hadn't bothered to look for the potential that lay behind the uptight façade but had rejected him out of hand. It was no one person's fault – they were all to blame, they had all conspired to slowly squeeze the joy out of him. The damage they had collectively inflicted was severe and would, she knew, stay with him his whole life; she was wise enough to realise that nothing she could do would ever completely erase the scars of the past forty years. But she could make it a lot better, she was sure she could, if only he would let her.

"There's nothing to be sorry for, Richard. All you're telling me is that you lack experience, and I guess I knew that already. I wish I could say the same, but I'm afraid I can't. I can't conceal from you that there have been other men in my life – not that many, but some. But no-one that I've wanted like I want you. So if you can live with that …"

"Oh, Camille, you don't understand."

"I think you'll find that I do. Let's see how far my famous intuition will take me. You were denied love from an early age, when your parents sent you away. You were different to the other boys at school – cleverer mostly – so they bullied and hurt you. You had no outlet for your emotions so you turned inwards. That's when you started to build walls round yourself, to stop anyone from getting close and having the potential to hurt you again. That's why you have no friends and why you retreat into the world of books and puzzles and other solitary activities. How am I doing?"

Richard stared wordlessly at her. How had she come to understand him so well?

"It's also why you were never really appreciated at work – everyone knew you were a good detective but you never let anyone see the real you, the one that exists behind all the protective layers you've built up over the years. You've never allowed yourself to become emotionally involved because you're afraid that it might not work out and you will be rejected and hurt yet again. But what is it that your poet says? _It's better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all._ And it _is_ , Richard, it _is_. I can't promise you that everything will be a bed of roses, I can't promise you that we won't argue and fall out from time to time – we are both strong personalities and it's bound to happen. But I do think we have the potential to be great together, if you'd only give us a chance. _No man is an island_ – there's another English poet for you. Do you really want to carry on with your dull old solitary existence? Yes, it's safe and familiar and you won't get hurt, but neither will you know the sheer joy and happiness that love and togetherness can bring. I know you're afraid of losing control, but sometimes you just have to take a risk. So it's up to you … do you want to give it a try?"

She paused for breath. It was probably the longest speech she had ever made – and certainly the most important. But was it enough to overcome all those years of deep reserve?

He took several deep, shuddering breaths. To be dissected like that had been deeply disturbing – all his innermost thoughts and fears, that he had never shared with anyone, put out on display, stripped raw. He was normally a man in full control of himself – all emotions stifled except when they inadvertently burst out in one of his famous rants – so he was shaken to the core by what Camille had said. It was a very new experience for him; the pillars on which he had so carefully built his life were crumbling beneath him. So this was love. He was teetering on the verge of a brave new world and in his disorientated state he wasn't sure whether he wanted to take that final step or not. He just knew – incontrovertibly and with a shattering finality – that he couldn't bear to say goodbye to Camille, couldn't bear never seeing her again, couldn't bear the prospect of not having her in his life.

"Yes," he whispered hoarsely, "yes … I … I want to try", adding desperately "but I'm not sure that I can change, Camille."

She stroked his face and rested her head on his shoulder. "I don't want you to change, I don't want you to be like everyone else – you wouldn't be my Richard any more. I just want you to enjoy life a little more, to relax and be a little less wary of new experiences."

"Liming, you mean?"

She laughed. "Not exactly! The day that you understand the concept of liming will be the day I know I have succeeded in my mission. But that's for the future – are you ready for the present?"

He swallowed hard and took a deep breath. "Yes", he said.

She took his hand and drew him towards the bed. "Then come with me."

* * *

Just before dawn Richard stirred in his sleep, disturbed perhaps by a particularly noisy blackbird or perhaps by the sound of the dust carts cleaning the streets and shop-keepers scrubbing their pavements with buckets of soapy water. He still found the sounds of Paris waking up and preparing for the new day unfamiliar; in London there was little more than the gentle thrum of traffic, which gradually built as the hour grew later. He opened his eyes and took in the light which was beginning to filter in through the shutters. The lone blackbird was joined by others, as the dawn chorus filled the air. Nothing as exotic as on Saint-Marie, of course, but really not bad for the centre of a big city.

He closed his eyes again and let a feeling of intense well-being flow over him. Turning his head slightly his cheek was brushed by a stray black curl – it wasn't a dream, then: it really had happened. Sharing a bed with someone else was something he had not done since childhood, unless you counted the nights he had spent with Patterson curled up next to him. He dimly remembered that as they had fallen into bed the previous evening the cat had given them a disgusted look and stalked off to the armchair, where he was still ensconced, snoring gently. He had ceded the field.

Camille sighed and shifted in her sleep. He stared at her in deep wonder: how had this happened? How had he – hardly love's young dream – ended up with such a beautiful and magnificent woman? A cold shiver ran down his spine. What if, when she woke, she decided it had all been a mistake, that one night was quite enough? He was well aware that despite all her warmth and encouragement he had been nervous, inexpert and somewhat clumsy. It had been over too quickly and he had not known what to say or do afterwards. He was very much afraid that after all the build-up Camille had been disappointed.

"Are you OK?" she had asked, gently stroking his face, and he had replied, with massive understatement ,"A bit shell-shocked but, yeah, OK."

OK was really not the word to describe how he had felt. It was as if he were floating in the clouds, unable to return to earth. This was the happiness he had not felt since the day he was given a telescope as a young boy. He was so grateful to her, had tried to stammer out his thanks and describe how lucky he felt but she had cut him short with a kiss. _"I'm the lucky one, I'm the one who caught the great detective!"_

But what if, in the cold light of day, she had changed her mind? He slid carefully out of bed, put on his pyjamas for comfort, and mentally braced himself for what he was feeling increasingly certain would come. His movement disturbed her and she opened her eyes.

"Wassa time?"

"Just after six."

"Too early. Why are you up?"

"Um … I … er … couldn't sleep."

Her head cleared and she sat up, realising instinctively that he was in some kind of crisis. "What is it, Richard? Are you having second thoughts? Do you regret what we did?"

"No … no … it was … fantastic. "

"Then what? Come and sit on the bed."

He tried but failed to look her in the eyes.

"It's just that … well … I know last night I was – to put it bluntly – somewhat lacking in … er … finesse, and … and … I just wanted to say that if, you know, you don't want to … to continue … well … then that's OK."

"Are you saying that _you_ don't want to continue?"

"No! But I just thought …"

"You think too much! Richard, you're an idiot. OK, so you're a little lacking in experience. Well, all that takes is a bit of practice and I'm more than happy to help you out there. Starting right now. Which brings me to another point – why are you wearing your pyjamas?"

"Well, they're cosy and warm and … oh to hell with it. Camille, you are totally comfortable naked, but I'm not – it's just not natural for me."

"Well, that's fine – you keep wearing your pyjamas and I'll just keep taking them off – like this!"

He looked at her as earnestly as he could manage, given what her hands were busy doing. "Camille, are you sure about this? You know you could do much better for yourself …"

"Oh do shut up, Richard, and just come back to bed."

When she used that tone of voice he knew better than to argue, so for once in his life he did exactly what he was told.

A couple of hours later Camille woke from a doze and stretched luxuriously. Life was good. Against all the odds she had found the man she was looking for in the unlikeliest of places. How had it all come about? Well, she wasn't one to over-analyse – she left that to Richard. She was just grateful that it had. For all his inexperience and occasional gaucheness he had made her happier than all her other boyfriends put together, and the future was looking rosy. She smiled at him, lying tousled in the twisted sheets, and he reached for her hand. A thought suddenly struck her.

"Richard!" she cried, appalled, "your train! What time is your train?"

"Ten twenty", he replied drowsily.

She leaped out of bed. "But it's gone 9 already! Hurry, you'll never catch it!"

"Not going to catch it."

"Not going to …? What do you mean?"

"I texted Bernard Taylor while you were asleep to accept his offer of a job at Interpol. I'll have to go back to London soon, of course, to sort things out, but not today – not until next week."

Her face shone with delight. This was more than she could have hoped for.

"Richard, have you thought this through properly? Are you quite sure you want to stay in Paris? You know it's full of emotional and argumentative French people!"

"Yes I know – but you're one of them."

She thought she had forgotten how to blush. "I think that's probably the nicest thing you have ever said to me" she said, a little overcome.

"Well, give me time and I'll probably think of something else. But at least here I know London's only a few hours away, the heat won't last and that blasted beach will disappear in a few weeks, so it's not the same as the Caribbean. Honestly, Camille, there were some things about Saint-Marie that I really liked – and I wouldn't mind going back for a visit – but I could never have lived there permanently. Even if I had walked around naked I would never have come to terms with the climate."

She giggled. "Probably not – but it would have been fun watching you!"

He gave her a reproving look, which made her giggle even more. "Never going to happen, Camille! But what about you? Bernard Taylor made the offer to both of us, remember."

"Yes, I remember. It's tempting, but I'm going to say no. Do you mind?"

"Of course not, it's your decision."

"It's not that I wouldn't enjoy working with you again – we make a good team and I don't have any doubts on that front. It's partly because I think the sort of analytical work Interpol does will suit _you_ far better than _me_ – _my_ strengths lie in dealing with people so a day-to-day policing role with the PJ will suit me far more. And partly because I think it's time to break the circle – you're not the only one who has noticed some rather unnerving similarities with our time on Saint-Marie. But mostly it's because I think you would find it too difficult to cope with being in a relationship with someone who was also your subordinate. You would end up torturing yourself with all sorts of moral and ethical questions! God knows you have enough hang-ups already, Richard, without adding another one, and I don't want it to spoil what chance we have of being happy. I love you, and that's what matters the most to me."

He nodded, conscious that there was much good sense in what she said.

"We'll still have the evenings and weekends, and that's as much as most couples have."

She snuggled closer and asked a little shyly. "Do you love me, Richard?"

He looked affronted. "Well, I bought you an apricot tart, didn't I?" He wasn't quite ready to say the words yet – but he surely would, one day soon. She knew that, and did not press him further. For now, it was enough.

"And _do_ you think we have a chance?"

His arm tightened round her. "There's always a chance, Camille – but not many people get a second one."

He had spoken no more than the truth. He wanted to change, to do better the second time around. The path ahead would not be easy, but he was quite sure it was the one he wanted to tread.

And he wanted to remain in Paris. An amazing thing had happened: he had come to like croissants.

* * *

 _Phew! Finally reached the end! Happy Easter everyone._


End file.
